Midnight Sun
by ava jamison
Summary: Batman is stranded on a nightmare of an alien planet, and Superman comes to his rescue. Soon it's clear that the conditions that threw Bruce's shuttle off course have robbed Superman of his powers, and together they have to try to find a way home.
1. Chapter 1

There was a noise. Above the sounds of the raging arctic winds outside, Bruce heard a noise. It sounded like—no, couldn't be. Was just another audio-hallucination brought on by the days and nights and weeks of being stranded alone on this bitter, god-forsaken icy rock of a planet.

But then he heard it again. So far he'd not seen another soul. This place—wherever the hell he was, and he had some ideas—was deserted. Empty and desolate save for the few mangy wolves that prowled just outside the cave he'd hunkered down in for shelter: the scrawny, snarling animals with whom he competed for the occasional rabbit or lesser foodstuff.

Bruce got up from his small fire, deep in the cave's inner chamber where he'd set up base camp, and made his way toward the sound. Millions of years ago, forces of nature had carved labyrinthine tunnels in the stone of this mountain. Cold, hard stone that the tattered remains of his cape brushed against as he made his way toward the mouth of the cave.

He didn't hear the sound again until he'd reached the outer chamber—the one he'd dubbed Delta—and even then he was still unsure if there was any point. He was wasting precious calories and body heat to investigate, but… it's not as though he had any choice. Investigating was his nature and what he had to do and—Bruce's jaw dropped as he rounded the final stalagmite formation—because this was… It was Clark. Silhouetted by the mouth of the cave, the world behind him a roaring, icy storm of blowing sleet and snow—was Superman.

And Superman stumbled toward him. He looked… he looked terrible. Exhausted and injured—there were lacerations and bruises on his face. A bad gash over the right eye.

"Superman!"

Bruce moved toward him and Superman fell forward so Bruce thought fast, staggered under the weight, all two-hundred—what was it, two-forty? Felt like more. He planted his feet and caught him, shifting to get an arm around the man's broad shoulders.

"Clark, what—how did you—?"

Clark sagged against him, body oddly cold—for him. Shaking with the cold. Shivering so badly that it sounded like he was stuttering when he spoke. "W-wasn't easy." His lips were blue, his speech slurred. "B-but knew I'd find you." He smiled, a small, dopey smile, tried to squeeze Bruce's shoulder, but his coordination was off. He missed.

Bruce scanned the mouth of the cave, taking off his torn, ragged cape. "Anyone else out there?" he asked as he snapped the thing around Superman's neck.

Clark shook his head, so Bruce hauled him toward him and started toward his inner chamber and the fire. The third time Clark stumbled, Bruce considered a fireman's carry, but quarters were just too close.

"Stay sharp, Superman. Almost there." He steered them between two large stalactites. "Talk to me."

Clark mumbled something intelligible, his eyes droopy and head nodding forward.

"Talk to me, Clark. What happened?"

"L-lost my powers after—" Superman moved, trying to lift his head.

Bruce caught him as he almost knocked them both into the rocky wall. "Keep going."

He shifted the man's weight and Clark's head lolled against his shoulder, Clark's cheek cold against the crook of his neck.

"Martyr." Clark didn't respond so Bruce said it louder. They were almost there. "Martyr."

"What?"

"You heard me, Clark." They both tripped and Bruce gripped him harder. "Always have to be the martyr."

He had to turn Superman toward him to pull him through the narrowest passage. "Only you'd come to an environment like this in nothing but that damn suit."

Clark's icy cold face was half-pressed against him, hard enough to feel Clark's small smile, then a huff of air as he winced when his leg grazed a rock formation.

"Do you always have to take everything for granted, Superman?"

Clark pulled back to give him a look. His 'huh' look. Bruce knew it well. It was good to see something familiar, normal. "Yeah." Bruce said as they reached the end of the constricted, tight corridor. "You heard me." One more chamber to go. Bruce bent, groaning at the weight as he dead lifted Superman over his shoulders for a fireman's carry. "Coming to this place in nothing but that suit?"

The response was mumbled but audible. "Don't see you," Clark took a shallow, uneven breath— "in a parka."

Good. He was coherent. Just a few feet more and… "Damn it, Clark. You just charge on in. Don't plan ahead."

"Leaving that for you B—"

"No excuse—" Bruce stumbled under the big man's weight and lurched into his bivy, where his fire was almost out.

He tried to lower Clark gently, but it ended up being spectacularly unceremonious. He unloaded the man from his shoulders and Clark landed with a soft thud in an ungainly heap a few feet from the fire. Bruce jockeyed him to a sitting position.

"Talk to me, Clark." One hand on Clark, he used the other to feed the fire a handful of dried moss and bark.

Clark blinked at the billowing, sooty blaze that flared up. "Smoky."

"Yeah. Let me see your eyes, Clark." He had a moderately glassy stare, but the pupils were fairly responsive. His face was so cold, though. And still, he shook.

Bruce coaxed the fire's flames and added a precious piece of wood.

"Keep talking." He crouched next to Clark. "How are your extremities?"

"Huh?"

"Your hands, Clark, your hands." Bruce reached for him. Took Clark's hand between his own two. "You know this. Hands and feet, hypothermia." Clark's hands were like ice. "Can you bend your fingers?"

Clark didn't even seem to hear him. He just stared at Bruce, lips curving into a smile.

"Fingers! Can you feel—" He rubbed Clark's large hand roughly.

Clark squeezed back, just a little. Then harder. Smiling at him like he was a half-wit, slowly his mouth formed three words. "I found you," he finally said.

"Great job, Clark." Bruce couldn't keep his own eyes from crinkling at the corners. "Now we're both stuck here. How are your feet?"

Clark shrugged, still smiling faintly.

"Your feet!"

Clark looked down, then slowly reached for them. He wasn't moving fast enough, so Bruce grabbed his boot, pulled. "I do not want to perform an emergency amputation, Superman!" He yanked one off. Clark's foot was red and swollen.

"Wiggle your toes, Clark."

Clark just blinked, eyelids sagging, head lolling forward.

Bruce grabbed Clark's face with both hands, one on either side, and shook him. "Wiggle your toes." He growled it in his command voice, and something must have gotten through because Clark complied.

Bruce swallowed, breathed in then out. He still held Clark's face in his hands. "What were you thinking, Clark?"

He didn't expect an answer and he didn't get one. Not for a moment. Then Clark reached out unsteadily. "I found you," he said, his speech slurred. His hand, still trembling with cold, grazed Bruce's face. It was like being pawed by a drunken polar bear.

Bruce swatted it away.

He glared at Clark, pulling off the man's other boot. "Can you feel this?" He pinched Clark's big toe, hard.

"Ow!"

"Good then."

"You need a shave, Bruce."

"Thanks for the critique, Clark."

"You look terrible, Bruce," Clark said. But he was smiling when he said it. A smug, self-satisfied smile.

"Did you even tell anybody where you were going? Where we are?"

Clark shook his head dumbly.

Bruce let out an exasperated huff and hauled him up. "Time to get these clothes off, Superman."

"But I'm cold—"

"Your suit's wet. Come on."

Clark didn't exactly fight, but he didn't help either. Bruce got the lower half of Clark's suit down, then pushed him back, leveraging the clumsy, half-frozen man back to sit on the cot he'd lashed together weeks ago from the hide of a carcass.

He left Clark's jock where it was and yanked at the top-half of his suit. Lacerations across his hands and lower arms. Bite marks, scrapes. "Wolves?"

Clark just nodded, his teeth still clacking together. Bruce wrapped his cape around him again and rubbed his shoulders like a boxing coach. "Better?"

Clark nodded so Bruce let him be and spread out the red and blue suit to dry as best he could.

When he turned back, Clark was still trembling, so Bruce grabbed the edge of the cot and dragged it closer to the fire. He reached for the other pelt he'd harvested and draped it over the man, layered it over Clark on top of his own half-shredded black cape.

"We have to warm you up, Clark. Lie down."

Clark looked like he was still trying to parse the command when Bruce went ahead and shoved him prone. "Turn on your side," he said, rolling him to his right.

Clark wrinkled his nose, cheek against the rough surface of the cot. "Stinks," he said.

"Be glad you don't have your super-senses, then." Softer, he added, "I don't smell so good myself." Bruce climbed onto the cot next to Clark. It was small. Too small, but Clark needed the body heat and if he turned on his side—there. He could put his chest against Clark's shivering back, warm his icy skin. He finagled—it wasn't easy, but he slid his left arm under Clark, between the cot and Clark's body, around his right shoulder.

"You do stink," Clark said. His teeth were still chattering.

"Shut up, Clark." Bruce tossed his other arm over the freezing man. The shaking slowly subsided and Clark's breathing deepened. Finally Bruce let himself fall asleep too.


	2. Chapter 2

Logbook:

Day 59, 08:12:32 hours

Personnel adjustment: As noted in amended entry for Day 58, S arrived yesterday. Full details still unknown. Will debrief ASAP, and further ascertain S's current physical and mental condition.

Communication status: projected date of repair completion on target. SOS transmission expected to resume within planned parameters.

Inventory addition: collared-lemming like mammal (probable closest Genus: Dicrostonyx) garnered through twitch-up snare #2. (Note: Tularemia precautions apply as usual.) TUS #1 rendered inoperable: sapling frozen. Remaining traps serviceable but fruitless.

Inventory depletion: Usual daily fuel rations, small quantity of coffee, sugar. Deemed appropriate to boost morale. S may still be suffering shock or after-effects of subzero temperatures.

Weather/Celestial activity: Storm continues with small breaks; breaks averaging approximately 25 minutes. Sunrise projection for yesterday within four minutes of actual. Chart amended. Sunspot activity minimal at 0700.


	3. Chapter 3

Clark woke, body aching, eyes opening to take in the cold, dark cave. It took him a second to place himself, but only a second, because the familiar rustle of Bruce in his Batsuit—of Batman—doing something productive, something to get them out of this mess—was only a few feet away. The smell of coffee filled the cave, and it pleased him: homey and heartening, even as his muscles protested sitting up.

"Wake up, sunshine," Bruce said, the barest of smiles audible but not visible. He was crouched beside the fire, a notebook and pen in hand. A tin pot warmed over the coals.

The floor was cold, so Clark moved his bare feet back onto the cot. "Coffee?" He scrubbed at his face, trying to wake up. "You've got coffee?"

"When are you going to get a utility belt, Clark?"

He went for his usual comeback. "Doesn't work with my uni—" and then glanced down, Taking in his near-nakedness, he wrapped Bruce's cape more securely—and modestly—around himself. Then pulled the mangy looking pelt to cover his feet. It was cold.

Bruce put his pen down and from nowhere, produced two collapsible metal cups, pouring them both steaming black coffee. "Sugar?"

Clark cleared his throat, still raspy with sleep. "I'm surprised you've even got coffee—"

"Not every day I get a visitor." Bruce's face was deadpan straight. "Go easy on it," he said as he passed him a small white packet just like the kind at a diner. It was surreal. "No cream, though."

"Guess you could milk a wolf…"

Bruce snorted on his coffee and Clark congratulated himself for making that happen, watched Batman correct his composure. Although… that wasn't completely right. He ripped the packet and poured in the sugar. Bruce had the cowl pulled back, and he'd… Clark had a dim memory of last night and it seemed like Bruce had looked… different. He tried to place how, exactly. Still looked drawn, gaunt. His jaw was clenched too tightly. But looked like Bruce had… "You shaved."

Bruce made a noncommittal kind of noise and picked up his pen again. "Hygiene is important, especially in the field."

"Uh huh." Clark watched him make his careful, neat notes. "Good coffee, Bruce."

"It's terrible, Clark," Bruce said without looking up. "But hot liquids are stimulating."

"Uh huh," Clark said again. "Log book?"

"SOP. I'll add your info as soon as you debrief me."

"Always were a good field commander." Clark's stomach picked that moment to rumble.

Bruce stopped writing to look up at him. "Hungry?"

Clark tried to protest. He was, but…

"How hungry?"

"A little…"

"Hmm." Bruce's brow furrowed. "Not milking wolves—it's bad enough eating them—"

It was Clark's turn to sputter on his coffee. "Wolves? You eat wolves?"

"Don't have to sound so horrified, Clark. Anyway, no wolf for a few days." He grimaced, just slightly. "Caught a r-a rabbit this morning on my rounds." Clark's face must have given him away, because Bruce quickly continued, "But that's not for breakfast either. No rabbit this morning." He reached for something beside him. "I know you don't eat meat anymore—it's just…"

Clark frowned. Bruce was—Batman was rarely at a loss for words. Not with him. He didn't say much, but when he did, he didn't flounder.

"There just isn't much here." Bruce handed him a hard, round, biscuit-like disc. "Try this."

Clark turned the thing over in his hand, then took a tentative bite. It tasted like sawdust, but he iwas/i hungry. Besides, the tightness around Bruce's eyes relaxed when he did it.

"You going to have one?" Clark said around a mouthful of dry, fibrous biscuit.

"How long since you've eaten, Clark?"

"I don't know. Hard to tell here." He polished it off.

"Another?"

Clark could have eaten three more, tasteless as they were. But he got how things were. Instead he said, "No thank you."

Bruce watched him, sipping his coffee. "Your clothes are dry."

"Yeah. Guess I'll put them on." Clark stood, his aching legs warming to movement, and pulled on his pants, partly hidden by Bruce's cape. Dressed from the waist down, he unfastened the thing from his neck and handed it back. "Thanks."

Bruce nodded and poked at the fire with a stick.

Clark pulled the top half of his suit over his head and carried his boots back to the cot, sitting down to put them on. "So," he said, pushing a hand through his hair, "what are 'the rounds' around here?"

"What?"

"You said you made the rounds."

Bruce waved a hand. "Checked my traps; drag snared… some prey. Got to it before the wolves this time. Now I can focus on fixing my—" he shot a look at Clark—"our radio." He stood, moving to a pile of bent metal in the corner. It hadn't registered with Clark until now as anything special—there was plenty of debris from the wreckage of Bruce's ship piled up in corners. "Antenna's broken. Storm must have really come down—or maybe another meteor shower, but I didn't see any excess debris from—"

"Me."

"What?"

"That…" Clark joined him, looking down at the damage he'd done. "That was me, Bruce."

"But that—" Bruce just stared at him, not blinking. "That was two days ago."

"Yeah, I guess. Hard to measure time here. Seems like one long ice storm—"

"I use a thing called a watch, Clark." Bruce was still staring at him. "And two days? Wandering out there for two days?"

"Well—" Clark surveyed the small array of tools Bruce had carefully organized on a ledge halfway up the cave wall. "Good thing you know how to fix it."

Bruce crouched down to turn the twisted metal over, reassessing like he'd just now discovered the damage. "I'm surprised you can walk."

"Got to say," Clark rolled a kink out of his shoulders. "Didn't feel too great when I hit it. Knocked me down for a count."

"Two days out there—without your powers. After hitting this." Bruce whirled on him, arms folded. "You're lucky—" He dug in his belt for another biscuit and shoved it into Clark's hand. "Eat."

He pushed it back. "No, Bruce. I don't need—"

"Eat it." Bruce squeezed his hand, hard, around Clark's own, forcing his hand into a fist around the brittle disc. "No good to anybody if you pass out."

"I'm not going to pass out."

"Just eat it, Clark. Lucky you're even—"

"I'm… I'm okay, Bruce."

Bruce's eyes softened, stopped their glare. He looked away.

Clark gave up and ate the ration. Bruce reached for the row of tools and methodically moved each one a fraction of an inch, realigning them all slightly to the left.

Neither said anything. Finally Clark broke the silence. "I holed up in your first cave."

"What?"

"Your base camp. It was your first base camp, right? Had to be."

Bruce's eyes narrowed. "What are you talking about, Clark?"

Clark swallowed the last bit of dry, scratchy biscuit. Wanted to wash it down with coffee, but he'd left it beside the cot. "Wasn't you?"

"Make sense, Superman."

Clark decided to retrieve his cup, still half-full. Besides, it was warmer over there. Bruce followed him. "When I came to, after I smashed into—" He waved an arm at the debris in the corner. "Came to and started looking. Some kind of animal—a big cat thing—"

Bruce nodded. "I've seen them. They usually stay at the higher altitudes—"

"Yeah. Well, this one was hungry. It was closing in on me when I found the cave—that worked. I ducked in. And there were signs. I thought you'd been there."

"What kind of signs?"

"A firepit, fire-ring. Some matches."

"Matches?"

Clark nodded. "I made a fire—scared the thing away. But you weren't there so I kept looking." He shrugged. "And then I finally found you."

"Clark you have to—"

"Show it to you?" Clark grinned, swirling the last of his coffee. Bruce's eyes were suddenly sparkling again. "Yeah. Figured that one out as soon as I realized you didn't know what I was talking about. Surprised you didn't find it already."

"So am I." Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose.

"There iare/i lots of caves around here. It was just… like you said. Luck."

"More than that. You're very… resourceful. Even without your powers, you—"

"Must be all those times we've partnered together. It's rubbed off, Bruce."

Bruce's eyes crinkled at the corners.

Clark stared at the fire and smiled to himself, too.

"Well," Bruce finally said, standing and dusting off his hands. "Guess we'll need to get you outfitted for travel, Superman. Don't have to tell you—this arctic zone's brutal."


	4. Chapter 4

Batman jockeyed into position and took up the slack. "Test."

"Testing!" A little behind him, Clark gradually put his weight on the rope.

"Don't jerk it."

"The wind's picking up!"

"Climb!"

"Climbing!"

From his perch halfway up the cliffside, Bruce pulled back a little. Hanging on with his right hand, he used his teeth to pull off his left gauntlet. It was too cold, but he needed better purchase, and if Clark was going to go gloveless, he could too. He repeated the process with the other and stuffed the gloves in his belt, then dragged himself onto the small ledge where he'd set up a radio wave generator. Minutes later, just behind him, Clark followed. He was panting a little and Bruce realized he didn't know if he'd ever heard Superman pant. Surely he had—maybe it was just the cold, punctuating each breath with an icy mouthful of fog.

"Looks like it's been—?"

"Something's knocked it around." Bruce knelt and examined the makeshift battery he'd rigged and sheltered with rocks, some of which had been pushed to the side. "Something big." He nodded toward a large paw print in the snow. "You picked up the frequency at what altitude?"

"A little outside the gravitational pull." Superman stomped the snow from his feet and wind whipped powdery dust off the bare gray rock of the outcropping, past his red cape, sifting it over the edge to fall a hundred feet below.

Bruce rewrapped the copper wires around the battery's core.

"Need any help?"

"Quiet." The thing managed a weak hum. That was as good as it was going to get, for now.

"I'm putting the antenna on that outcropping. Pass this to me when I get up there." He handed the hunk of metal to Clark and got a handhold on the ledge overhead, pulling himself up and over. Kneeling, tattered cape whipping behind him, he reached for the metal bar that Clark extended.

"Batman, behind you!"

He couldn't move fast enough. The thing was on him too fast. Hard and heavy, it pounced, landing on his back with enough force to knock the wind out of him, razor-sharp talons slicing into his back, hot stinking breath on his neck. Clark's hands were around his wrists, pulling him forward, trying to yank him out from under the snarling cat, big as a panther. Clark pulled, dragging Batman over the edge. He tumbled forward, landing sprawled in the snow a few feet below Clark.

"Superman!" Bruce staggered to his feet. Scrabbled for a handhold. Watched in horror as the cat, with a vicious, snarling cry, launched itself at Superman. The thing landed—hind legs in the snow and front paws on Superman's broad chest. Rearing back its huge head, it bared prehistoric, deadly fangs in a tiger-like growl that changed into a roar—echoing across the frozen mountain and ending in a terrible, savage bite to Clark's shoulder.

Superman cried out, falling to his knees, even as the huge white cat didn't disengage, instead digging teeth harder into the meat of his shoulder, trying to shake its prey—and then the two of them were a blurred tumble of Clark's red and blue and the animal's white fur, tumbling and fighting in the snow, dangerously close to the edge of the ledge—the point where the rock stopped and only ice formed a barrier between life and death.

"Superman!" Bruce clawed his way closer, but they were rolling closer and closer to the edge, a ball of fists and teeth and fur, leaving trails of blood in the snow. He lunged toward them, but it was too late—the ice beneath their two heavy bodies—one man, one animal—gave way, and they surged downward, out of sight. Bruce dropped to his belly and slid, heart racing, to peer over the edge. Twenty feet below him, in a snow crevasse, they were still locked in combat. The cat was on top, but Clark was fighting it.

Bruce slung his rope over an anchor point and then around himself, between his legs, up over his hip and around his shoulder. Pushing off, he rappelled down the crevasse and landed next to them, just in time to hear a pained cry—an animal's pained cry. Superman wasn't going down easy.

The thing crouched over him, fangs sunk deep in Clark's forearm. With a bellow meant to spook the damn monster, Bruce leapt toward the fighting ball of muscle and fur, fangs and fists. He fell on them both—on the cat's back. Clark gasped at the extra weight and the cat howled an unearthly scream. There was blood everywhere—Superman's blood—on the snow and on the tiger's mouth and paws and fur—on Clark—Batman had to end this and end it now.

He wrapped his arms around the thing, under the cat's front haunches. It twisted and snarled, letting go of Clark's arm to try to get at Bruce. But Batman didn't let go. He had the cat in a half-Nelson and he used his weight to roll the thing off and away from Clark. At the same time, Superman rolled out from under it, leaving pools of red. Too much red. Bruce willed himself not to dwell on that—not yet—the red was bright and dark and there was too much—he caught Clark's eyes though, huge and blue and clear. There was blood—Superman was bleeding—but his eyes were clear and that… that gave him enough for right this minute.

He yanked on the cat, arms still locked in place around its front haunches. The thing bucked, just like he'd known it would, and he used the leverage of its body weight against it to pivot them both, then finally to fight it into a standing position, drawing the monster up on its hind legs—his chest to the thing's back. Arms still behind the animals front legs, he locked his hands together behind its neck, and pulled.

The big cat twisted furiously, trying to throw him.

Bruce counterbalanced, maintaining his stance.

The animal pawed the air, forepaws flailing, and whined, a long snarling growl. Tried to muscle him off. Bruce steadied his hands and went for the kill

A few feet away, Clark cradled his right arm. His eyes, locked on Bruce's, widened when the loud snap of the tiger's neck sounded, sharp, clear and final.

The huge animal went still—limp in Batman's arms. He dropped it in the snow.

Even as he moved toward Clark, Bruce had a knife out, yanking at his cape. He worked the tip into a hole already torn and pulled, ripping a strip of black off in his hand.

"Superman." He fell to his knees next to him in the snow.

"Batman," Clark said, but his voice was soft. Unsteady. There was blood everywhere. Too much blood. His shoulder and the side of his neck were ugly and ragged, but he was bleeding from more wounds than just that one.

The suit—damn impenetrable suit, protecting a now all too human man—hadn't even been pierced. But the man beneath it was bleeding out, turning red and blue fabric dark with gore.

"Where is it, Superman? Where?"

Superman blinked at him. His pupils were dilated, his breathing shallow and irregular. He was shivering uncontrollably.

Batman grabbed his shoulders. "Damn it, Superman!" Bruce ran hands over the man's arms—his hands came away red. He stared at them. Registered that they were trembling and willed them steady again. Legs, and—yes. Arterial. Blood was pulsing from Clark's left leg rhythmically. His life's blood, spilling out into the snow.

Pulling at his cape to slice another strip, he pushed him prone, and Bruce slid the piece of cape under Clark's leg—through blood-drenched slush, and pulled the ends together as hard as he could, balancing a knee up, forcing pressure on the wound. One-handed, he pulled a pack of field dressing from his kit and clapped it on the wound, hard, then used his teeth and other hand to pull the tourniquet tight around Clark's thigh.

"Stay with me, Superman," he growled around the strip of cape in his mouth. As soon as it was bound, he ripped another strip from his cape, grabbed more field dressing and applied it to the wound on Clark's shoulder. This time the strip of cape went around his neck and torso, tied under one arm. He felt along Clark's body for more injuries—more places where there was too much blood still flowing

Field dressing. He pulled out the last of his field dressing and he had time to compute—somehow some part of his mind noted that this was the first time he'd ever… He tore a new strip, got to work. That this was the first time he'd ever—that Superman had ever needed anything like this from him. The man—the god—was mortal. More mortal than he wanted to acknowledge. And bleeding to death in this godforsaken arctic hellhole of a prison.

"Stay with me, Superman!"

Clark startled, eyes opening, then closing again.

"Superman!" Batman kept the pressure on his shoulder, patted his face. The skin of his cheek was clammy, lips blue and shivering. He patted again, gentle—then rough.

No response. He had a man down—ithis/i man down, bleeding out in the snow, going into shock, in subzero temperatures.

Bruce hauled his hand back and slapped him across the face. "Clark!"

Superman blinked for that, opened his eyes. Batman grabbed the collar of his cape, dragged Clark's face close to his own. "Superman!"

Superman blinked again, dazed but—obviously... He was trying to focus.

"Soldier, you've lost a lot of blood, but we're going to get you patched up."

Clark worked his mouth like he wanted to say something but no words came out. Then his eyes rolled back. He was shaking violently.

Batman got to the last major injury he could pinpoint right now—this was triage—the cat's fangs had punctured Clark's forearm. He wrapped another strip of his cape around the bloody fabric and fought the surreal vertigo of having this man—this man—like ithis/i.

Bruce reached for more bandages but his kit was empty. Yanked out his gauntlets and struggled to put them on Clark's shaking hands. Pulled Superman up close to him, trying to keep him warm. Kept his shoulder up and crooked Clark's knee, to elevate his leg. Pulled him against him. Tried to stop the way spasms wracked his body, trembling with shivers.

Around them both, the wind howled; the snow blew and drifted. Shadows were falling. He'd misgauged sunset. The sun was going down. The temperature was dropping, they were covered with blood, stinking with the primal, coppery scent of Superman's blood in this frozen, predator-filled nightmare—and darkness was on its way.


	5. Chapter 5

Above the two men huddled in the icy abyss—one dying, one desperate, the alien sun still burned, a glowing ball veiled under thick layers of gray storm clouds that colored it a vile and noxious yellow. Slowly, however, its light was dying, lengthening the shadows and dropping the temperature in the ice-covered crevasse. Winds howled across the expanse twenty feet overhead, whipping and turning the rope still hanging from the ledge. The rope Bruce rappelled down to fight beside Superman, trying to save him from the arctic cat's savaging of his no-longer invincible body.

On his knees in the snow, tattered remains of his cape twisting and unfurling behind him, Batman tilted back the head of the fallen god in his arms. Swiping an almost imperceptibly shaking thumb over blood-caked eyelashes, he gently pulled up a lid. No change. Pupils dilated; unresponsive, Superman's face a deathly white—moribund, the part of his mind he wasn't going to listen to—not yet, not while Clark was alive—tried to scream at him. He pushed the word away. Wasn't that, couldn't be that bad yet. He still had a chance.

He was not going to let the world lose Superman.

Bruce skinned his gauntlet from Clark's left hand. He shouldn't have wasted time putting them on, even. He was a fool; it was an expected response to watching someone fall in front of you—to want to… He'd wanted to offer comfort. Comfort to a fallen comrade, a hero. It'd been… foolish to put them on him—he needed to check tissue reflex. Trust the process. Trust the process. It's all he had.

He held Clark's hand above his heart level, staring sightlessly at the S-shield on the man's chest, the rise and fall of his rib cage. His breathing—too shallow, too irregular. Pressing the soft pad of Clark's index finger, he counted off, waiting for the white spot to fill out with blood, peripheral profusion—capillary refill. "Damn it, Clark—I don't even know what your vitals are supposed to be here." Four and a half seconds. Outside the viable level for humans—far outside—but maybe—maybe the cold was slowing his reflexes. And how human iwas/i Clark, here, now? He shoved the man's hand into his armpit, pressing it between his arm and his chest in an effort to warm it, even though he knew he was lying to himself, lying while he watched Clark's life ebb away.

He talked, just to keep himself sane, keep procedure on track. "Checking your heart rate, Clark," he said, sliding his hand over Clark's chest, then under his shirt for a better read. "You're going to be fine." Marked tachycardia. He checked it again, at the clammy base of his noble, white throat, near the gnawed, ripped shoulder and blood-drenched bandage.

Hypovolemia. Cardiac distress. Clark's chest rose and fell, then his breath hitched, shallow and ragged. Blood pressure dropping, fast and frightening. Cardiovascular collapse. He'd had Clark's leg elevated, but now he let the man's knees drop, pushing him off his lap. Grabbed his chin and checked his airway for obstruction, even though he knew that there wouldn't be one. Superman's heart had nothing—not enough blood left to pump.

"Damn it, Clark, you're not dying today." And not here. Damn the superpowers that got him here and then left him for mere mortality. Damn him, for getting Clark here—bringing him, through his own mistake. He'd erred, grievously erred and Superman was paying for his mistake—a now mortal man, unresponsive and unconscious and going into cardiac arrest.

Crouching over the man, he leaned close, listening for the sound of breath, watching for chest motion. He brought his face to Clark's mouth, felt for air movement from Clark's lips on his cheek, on his ear. Nothing. "Damn it, Clark." Nothing but silence, nothing but his own voice and the howling wind. His cowl was too tight, strangling him. He yanked it back, let the cold slap his face. Cursing, he pinched Clark's nostrils closed and bent his mouth to Clark's, exhaling into his mouth, twice. Gulping in air to refill his own lungs, he continued, counting off seconds. One ragged, desperate breath every five seconds—twelve breaths each minute.

No response. Around them the snow blew and drifted, and more began to fall, sifting down. Above them, over the mouth of the crevasse, it billowed and spiraled, but here, in the depths of the mountain, it sifted down like plastic flakes in a snow globe.

If only he had saline. He could make it, back in the cave—but not out here. Out here they were both… they were both… dead. Sweat prickled his neck, trickled down his back until it froze in the artic air as he started chest compressions. Hands on the lowest part of Clark's breastbone, elbows straight, he positioned his shoulders directly above his hands to make the most of his weight. Pushing down, he started the cycle, pushing down and letting up, counting. "Clark, breathe," he said after one, five, fifteen, "breathe!" Bruce shifted gears back to his mouth, sealing his lips around Clark's, daring the man alive with the air from his own lungs—his breath and his will. His hands were numb. His arms and legs stupid and slow and clumsy as he forced his body to repeat the cycle, again and again.

No sign of life. Tears stung his face, but he didn't stop—couldn't stop. He was the only thing between life and death. Without Bruce's breath—without Bruce forcing Superman's heart to compress and release, to pump and send oxygen and what little blood remained—Clark was a dead man. As it was, he was alive as long as Bruce could keep this up. Could keep pouring himself, his own life into Clark's lifeless body. The lifeless body of the man he'd fought beside, battle after battle. The man who charged into every skirmish selflessly, ready to fight for the things that mattered, no matter the cost; the hero who cared more about others than himself. The soldier he'd fought beside, over and over. The man who'd saved his life more times than he could ever begin to count. He had to save him. Had to save Superman.

"Why the hell did you come here, Superman?" He knew the answer, and the answer washed over him, guilt like a tidal wave, drowning him, driving a racking sound of pain from deep within his throat. He barely heard it, barely registered the sound—just pushed on Clark's chest, then released. Pushed, then released.

Of all people he'd ever done this for, saved this way—he'd lost seven—no. He wasn't going to about the numbers, the ones he'd lost. Every case was different; every death took a different toll. They'd all had different specifics, different circumstances, different reasons. Different people, different—they weren't Clark. Weren't Superman.

He got through another cycle, then another. The crevasse grew darker, colder. Somewhere a wolf howled, probably smelling Clark's blood, maybe the dead cat who lay few feet away, its neck broken by Batman in the struggle. He prayed the wolf wouldn't breach the crevasse, because if he had to stop long enough to fight it off…

"Make it through this, Superman," Bruce said as he tried to push life into the man's chest. "Make it through and I'll build a snow cave—I'll drag your—" A sob broke his words. He pressed and released, harder and harder. "I'll build it around you and keep you warm inside and I'll kill anything that tries to come in but you have to start breathing, Clark!"

His vision blurred, he blinked it back, pushed back the anger, the fear. He had one hope. If Clark couldn't do this by himself, or with everything Bruce could give him—his strength and his breath and his muscle and his will—there was one slim chance. One that could save Clark or kill him. Save or kill Superman.

He kept himself sane, going through the futile motions that at least kept Clark alive until he stopped—kept himself sane by counting and by weighing his options. He blew into Clark's mouth, watched the man's lungs fill. Did it again. Moved to his chest and pumped his heart for him. Went back to breathing and then did it all over again. The option was really Clark's—not his. Not his at all. Clark's choice. But Clark was in no condition to make the decision. A decision that could kill him or could possibly—maybe, just maybe, prolong his life enough that they'd have a chance—

Unsealing his lips from Clark's mouth, he put his hands in position over his breastbone. "Clark?" he said, his own voice sounding foreign and far away. He was breathing hard, air in his own lungs burning like fire. He pushed, released. "Damn it, Clark, I don't know if you can hear me, but I have to say this." He pushed, released again. Pushed so hard his arms ached. Pushed so hard that one of Clark's ribs cracked under the pressure. He heard the snap, felt it give way under his hands. Cursing himself, he moved his hands slightly away from the spot and kept going.

"I have something, Clark. It could save you—or it might kill you." One-handed, the other still pushing and releasing, pumping Superman's heart—Bruce reached into a small compartment of his utility belt, pulling out a syringe. "Clark?" He pushed the damn perfect s-curl from Superman's forehead, fingers ghosting over cold, too-white skin. "This is… since you came to rescue me, you idiot, we've only got one choice—it's the only thing I know to do. Experimental drug. US Army." Trials were promising, though—promising enough for Batman to carry it. "Supposed to thicken the remaining blood volume." Flicking off the cap with his thumb, he tapped the syringe, sending a bubble through the pale violet liquid inside the tube. Didn't say that he'd only ever meant to use it on himself, if there was no other way and he was bleeding out. "Clark—it's for humans. It might not even help you." He peeled Clark's shirt up his chest, baring his deathly white skin, and poised the needle over the man's dead, silent heart. "It might not help you, Clark, and if it kills you, I don't know what I'll—" His voice broke on the words. Hauling back, he stabbed the needle into Clark's chest, drove it between ribs, shoved it through flesh and muscle, then depressed the plunger, shooting liquid straight into Superman's heart.

Clark gave a great, shuddering gasp. His eyes flew open, wild and sightless.

"Clark!"

And closed again, too fast.

Somewhere—not in the crevasse, but above, coming from the east, maybe… a wolf howled, then was joined by another mournful cry. The shadows grew longer.

Bruce swiped a hand through his sweaty hair and swiped the excess moisture from his eyes. Didn't need it—to be wet in subzero temperatures. Started compressions again. Never thought I'd have to do this for you, Clark. You of all people.

He breathed again, breathed for both of them, forced the air from his lungs into Clark's. Weighed his options—what he'd do if Clark came to, woke up, lived. If Clark died, neither would matter. Nothing would matter. He refused to accept that—not yet. As long as Clark was still breathing, even breathing the air Bruce made him take, the air he forced Clark's body to use, he had hope.

If Clark came to… if he'd just start breathing, damn it—mountain travel in the dark was out of the question. If he could rig some kind of cradle or truss—it didn't matter. Only a fool would attempt it in the dark.

"Checking your vitals, Clark." Capillary refill was still at four. Pupils unresponsive.

If they couldn't go back, that left his next task: a snow cave. He scoped out his site between breaths, between compressions. West side of the crevasse. Least wind, due to a natural snow break. To bivy here meant a lower temperature than base camp but once it was built it would be survivable for a night. Under normal conditions. True, Superman was… compromised. But if anybody could make it, it would be Clark. The snow cave would offer protection from predators—should any venture down here. He surveyed the seemingly vast quantities of blood spread across the snow—they might be tempted. He could defend a snow cave, with his knives and his 'rangs and he would be the one between the cave's mouth and Clark. The guard and defender. Protector. No predator was going to get by him. He'd do what he could about the animal carcass and the blood—Clark's blood—but first things first. Trust the process. He pressed and released. The snow cave was going to take a minimum of two point five hours—and that was under best conditions, not with a man down. He'd just have to keep Clark at his side while he worked. Keep him warm and alive until he built a shelter.

He checked Clark's pulse—feeling nothing—and squinted toward the site where he'd build the cave. In theory, he could get rid of the worst of the bloody snow afterwards. For now, hold Clark next to him as he dug. Try to use his own body heat to keep Clark warm enough until…

Bruce scanned the expanse of ice and snow around him, pressing and releasing Clark's chest, forcing Superman's heart.

The rope he'd used to rappel down still twisted and whipped in the breeze. It was late, but he had two hours of daylight left. Two hours. Plenty of time for them to reach base camp: fire, food, supplies. Saline to supplement the blood loss. Plenty of time, if Clark was whole, strong and capable, but this? Clark outweighed him by at least… forty pounds now, maybe more—and wasn't able to help. Getting him up the crevasse and down the mountain—unconscious—was more than—he'd need to build a sling of some kind.

Leave Clark in the snow? Come back with supplies? He'd come back to a dead man. Bruce closed his eyes to the image. They burned and stung.

Somewhere—it was difficult to know with the tricks of wind and mountain echoes, the wolf howled again. Wolves were easy for him, when it was just him. They were out early tonight.

Closer, another one answered. They smelled the blood, had to be it. Hell, he smelled the blood, thick and coppery, as strong as the taste of Clark's skin on his lips, as visceral as the feel of Clark's teeth clacking against his own as he breathed into him.

If he just had a few things, he could make saline. He computed how long it would take.

Another wolf howled. He checked Clark's pulse. Still... wait. Did he feel something, thready and weak? His fingers tightened on Clark's wrist. Lifting Clark's hand above his heart, he pressed the man's tender index pad. Counted off one, then two sec—yes, color was replacing white in less than two seconds. He searched Clark's face for any sign, but nothing. "Clark?" Patted as gently as he could with thick, frozen fingers. No response. Bent his ear to Clark's lips, listening, and felt the barest whisper of breath. It was the best thing he'd ever felt. He watched Clark's chest rise, his vision blurring, eyes wet—maybe, just maybe, he'd given Clark a little extra time. They had no saline, food, water or shelter, but maybe he'd given Clark a little extra time.

Another wolf's cry drifted across the snow.

Clark took another breath, then another. Bruce felt for his heart, and the hand skimming along Clark's chest, damp with sweat and tears, felt the faintest of beats. He pressed his ear to the man's icy, naked chest and then his forehead dropped forward, to rest against white, damp skin. He stayed like that for a long moment, eyes closed. Felt Clark's heart beat, his chest rise and fall.

"Come on, Clark. We're going to build a shelter." Bruce tried to stand, staggering. He crouched to lift Superman's heavy body, lurching forward under the man's weight.

"I'm going to build a snow cave, Superman." He took a clumsy step forward in the snow. "We're going to stay here for the night and I'll kill anything that comes near you. Just make it, Clark." Bruce took another step, then another. "Don't you dare die on me. Don't you dare show up to rescue me and then die on me." He'd keep him close, give him his body heat while he worked. Keep him safe and alive. Bruce stumbled, almost went over, almost dropped Superman and fell, but caught his balance.

"Damn you, Superman," he listened to his own voice growl. Trust the process. "Damn you and your rescue mission. I was going to get off of this damn planet and then you had to show up." He groaned as he fought to stand, fought to stand holding this fallen god , this fallen warrior, this fallen man. "You… idiot." Bruce slung one of Superman's arms over his neck and hooked a hand under the man's knees. Other arm around Clark's shoulder, he took another step.

Clark's head lolled against his neck, cold and heavy. Snow fell, straight down just like a perfect Christmas eve.

"Don't you dare die on me, Superman." Bruce's eyes burned with the frigid air. He should have pulled his cowl back up before he stood but now his hands were full. Clark's nose bumped his jaw—once, then again. It had to be his imagination, but… then a third time and he almost thought? Felt? "Bruce" breathed against his skin.

Stumbling, he dropped to his knees, Superman in his arms, snow powdering up with the falling weight of both men.

"Clark?" Bruce whispered, his voice husky and cracked. "Clark?"

He was rewarded with the best thing he'd seen on this planet, maybe the best thing he'd ever seen. Clark's eyes, looking up at him: blue and clear and perfect.

"Clark!" His arms tightened around Superman and he pressed his cheek to Clark's icy temple. He held him too tight—had to tell himself to let go, let the man breathe. So he did, reluctantly letting his hold go gentle. Clark smiled up at him—lips only barely curved, but eyes definitely smiling. His voice was like gravel, hoarse and beautiful and the best sound Bruce had ever heard. "How long was I out, Bruce?

"Too long, Clark." He pushed Superman's curl from his forehead. "Glad to have you back."

"I—" he hesitated, his words slow and slurred. "I hurt."

"Bet you do."

"Where are we?"

"I don't know, Clark."

"I'm so confused."

"You lost a lot of blood. That'll do that. You'll be okay—"

"I think I dreamed about the circus."

"You did?"

"In outer space."

"Ah." Bruce pressed his cheek to Clark's temple. Inhaled and exhaled. "Clark, I'm going to have to get to work now."

"Patrol?"

"No, not patrol." Flakes fell on the man's pale face, glittering on his pale skin. Bruce brushed them from his eyelashes. "To build us a shelter for the night."

"But… the sun's coming up, Bruce."

"No, Clark."

"It's snowing. And the sun's shining. Devil's beating his wife."

"What?"

"Yes it is, Bruce. Look."

"No, Cl—" Bruce glanced at the sun and sure enough it was—coming out again… Eclipse. Why hadn't he predicted an eclipse?

Bruce's body relaxed, shoulders slumping back a little to stare up at the sun. "You're right Clark. You're right."


	6. Chapter 6

"Can you stand?" Batman crouched beside him, sliding an arm through the snow, under him, supporting his shoulders, and hefted Superman up to a sitting position.

Clark's head spun with pain and a thrumming insectoid buzz that worsened as he stood, but he clenched his fists, forced his legs to cooperate, and with Batman's muscle behind his own, managed to stand, then stumble forward. One more step and he gritted his teeth to keep from crying out when his leg folded under him and his body slid toward the cold surface of the abyss, wrenching his arm and shoulder.

Batman caught him before he hit the ground. His mouth was a grim line as he studied the man slumped against him. "That's it," he said, tone final. "We're staying here for the night."

Clark couldn't respond, not even with a nod. His head swam and he tried to stop the world from rolling and turning in his brain. Tried to focus on what Batman was saying, on what they needed to do.

"Rest," Bruce said, lowering him to the ground.

"I can help," he started to say, but his words were slow and clumsy, and Batman ignored him anyway. Superman allowed himself—just for a moment—to close his eyes, and darkness overtook him.

The sun made its way across the alien sky as Superman drifted in and out of consciousness, numb from the cold, grateful for the moments when the pain was not so terrible, the moments when his body didn't fight him like something out of his own control. He wanted to do something—do anything—but all he could manage was to hang on and wait for his strength to return; pray that it did. Far away, he could hear digging, the scrape of Bruce's boots and the occasional howl of an animal— before slipping back into oblivion.

The next time he opened his eyes, it was because the shadow of the cliff had spilled across his lower torso and he was shaking with the cold, each tremble sending spikes of pain through ripped, tortured muscles. Then Bruce was there—Batman, his cowl pulled up, standing over him, saying something. He wasn't sure what, but Bruce leaned down and an arm passed behind his back, under his shoulder blades, a gauntlet slipping under his right armpit to help pull him up. "Shelter's finished. Can you take a few steps?"

Superman nodded, ignoring the pain that one single, stupid movement sent flaring through his worst wound and his aching head. He tried to clamber to his feet. They crumpled under him, a thousand pounds each—but with Bruce's help, he finally made it upright, leaning heavily on Batman, who must have been working for hours while he sank in and out of consciousness, because ahead was a cave, hollowed into a snowdrift at the base of the crevasse. Clark took one staggering step forward and felt his entire body give, falling beneath his own weight, his shoulder shrieking as Bruce tried to steady him. If Batman hadn't been there he'd have gone down hard, face first, and as it was, they both tripped and fell anyway.

Clark's vision blurred and everything went hazy—eyes watering and equilibrium upside-down. Beside him, Bruce put his hands on his own thighs and pushed himself up to stand, then bent, breathing heavily, and scooped Clark up in a dead lift. He put him across his shoulder, Superman's hands hanging down uselessly to drag against the silken remnants of Batman's ragged, shredded cape. His body screamed at him but he ignored the pull of his torn shoulder, steeling himself against the pain. The cave Batman had dug couldn't be far. He'd hang on for this—he could. But it was too much, and he must have blacked out again because the next thing he knew he was seated on the ground, being dragged backwards across the snow. Bruce was behind him, trying to steady Clark's injured arm and shoulder by bracing his chest against him, pulling him by the waist through an archway carved in the snowdrift. Batman's cowled head tipped forward until his chin was on Clark's good shoulder. "Duck now, Superman."

He couldn't do it fast enough and it hurt—hurt even more when Bruce's hand—Batman's leather-clad gauntlet—clamped down on the back of his head, fingers splayed through his hair, pushing, firmly pressing his head down so that Superman could fit through the arch he'd chiseled in the ice.

The pain at the juncture of Clark's left shoulder and his neck surged into something livid and angry—searing through his neck and arm like an agonizing ribbon of fire.

"Just a little lower, Clark. That's right. Lean back. Thirty-five degree angle." Batman's boot heels dug into the snow that slanted upwards from the cave's opening as he scooted backwards, pulling Clark up the rest of the way through the small door he'd hewed and on into the interior of the snow cave.

It was tiny. They could both sit up, but not stand, and the circumference wasn't too much larger than the two of them. A raised platform of packed snow took up two-thirds of the space, covered with a layer of matted brown grass.

"Home sweet home," Bruce said, his hands behind himself to lever his elbows and lift himself up onto to the raised bed, grunting as he hauled Clark up after him, the movement sending bolts of burning, aching torment through the gash in his throat and shoulder, his thigh, his arm. He bit the inside of his cheek and tasted blood.

Behind him, Batman leaned back against the packed snow that formed the wall of the cave and one-handed, lit a small fuel unit from his utility belt, placing it on the cave's floor beside the platform. "I think we can get it up above freezing in here. Forty if we're lucky."

Clark mumbled something—he wasn't even sure what—as he forced back the agony throbbing through his body, the pain that raged, screaming at him with every stuttering heartbeat, every shaking inhalation. He closed his eyes to will it further away, quiet it to something manageable. Behind him, Bruce sat up until his chest was flush against Clark's back and Superman let Batman's breathing, deep from exertion but calmer than his own, coach him through it. Trained his own inhalations and exhalations to match Bruce's as he felt the man's chest expand and release against his back.

Batman waited—he must have known what Clark was doing, how hard he was working to push past the pain. "Better?" He finally asked, breath unexpectedly warm on Clark's still-icy ear.

"Yes," he lied. Then winced, as Batman moved behind him, rising to his knees.

"Sorry." He moved slower, jostling Clark less, and a moment later a small mound of dried, only slightly damp grass next to the raised platform was lit. Gray smoke billowed past them to exit out a vent carved high on the wall. The tiny fire warmed Clark's left thigh, and Bruce was melting something—ice and snow in a collapsible cup over the small flame.

He was thirsty, he suddenly realized, mouth watering, and he must have shown it somehow because behind him, he felt Bruce shift with an, "I know." He dumped a vial of something in the cup with the chunks of slushy ice, melting the mixture further into liquid.

It was bitter and metallic but felt so good sliding down his throat, bits of ice and all. Bruce took the cup from him and refilled it with more broken icicles from a pile he must have gathered outside, then put the cup back where the ice would melt.

His hands held Clark's shoulders steady, tried to keep Superman's tortured muscles from moving any more than necessary as he slid off the platform to pull a rectangular block of ice into place, closing the doorway to the cave. Then he was back, beside Clark's half-prone body. "How bad is it?"

Clark's voice came out harsh and raspy, despite the water he'd just gulped. "I've felt better."

Bruce still had the cowl on but Superman knew he was being studied. Scrutinized, and he didn't like that look. It was the one Batman wore in battle when a fighter went down and he knew they were out for the count. It was way too close to pity, and nobody wanted to fall in front of Batman.

"Stop it."

"Stop what?"

"Looking at me like that." He flinched as Bruce reached for his calf to bring his injured leg to its full extension and pull off a boot.

"Like what?" Bruce said, pulling off the other one.

"I don't like—"

"What?"

Clark tried again. Anything to distract himself. Anything to get that look off Bruce's face. "Being the one—"

"The one down? Who does?" Batman pulled a knife out of his utility belt. "Superman just has less practice." He cut at the binding around the knot he'd made from a torn strip of his cape. "I asked about the pain. It will dull—"

"No."

"Clark—"

"Morphine?"

"Have that," Bruce said, sitting beside him on the platform of snow and grass to unwrap the bloody tourniquet of half-frozen gauze from his left quadricep. "That and—"

"Save it."

"Clark—"

He winced as Bruce peeled the final layer of bandage from the fabric that covered his thigh, peeling gauze away from the wound. The coppery smell of his blood filled the cave as the cat's jagged claw slash reopened and blood began to flow through what Lois always called his tights. He missed her, suddenly and deeply, and she was so very far away.

"Put your hand on the wound and press."

Clark did it, staring down at the blood seeping between his fingers and pooling around his thigh. "I can stand it without drugs. You would."

"I'd expect," Batman said, hooking his fingers under the waistband of Superman's uniform and yanking down on his tights, "isomeone/i to talk me out of being stupid."

"When has anybody ever talked you out of—"

"It's been known to happen." He worked the uniform down over Clark's jock to get it past his hips. "Lift up."

"When?" Clark said, shivering as cold air met the naked skin of his stomach and pelvis, but he wasn't as cold as he… should have been. His brain seemed a little confused, but somehow the cold felt… distant.

"Move your hand." Batman peeled the tights down over his thighs, finally revealing the wound—only to immediately slap his own palm over it and press hard. "When what?"

"When did…" Clark searched his mind to remember what he'd been trying to say. It took a minute. "When did anybody ever make iyou/i change iyour/i mind?"

"Put your hand back. And search your memory. You were there some of the times."

Clark rolled his eyes, sliding his fingers down his thigh past Bruce's, through his own blood.

"I'm going to let go now."

"Ready." His voice sounded slurred to him. "Bruce, did you drug me?"

"Press, Superman!" Bruce dragged the bottom of his uniform down his legs and all the way off, tossing it aside on the grassy platform. "And yes." He reached for his medical kit, threading a needle. "Just something mild, mixed in with the electrolytes. You've lost so much blood that it's hitting you a little harder than it normally—"

"Batman, I'm very disappointed in you." It came out 'dishapointed'.

"Clark, you're sweating. Your clothes are already wet and you're sweating more because of the pain. Sweat is very much the enemy in sub-zero temperatures."

"It's warmer in here."

Batman looked up at the vent in the cave, where the sky was darkening with nightfall. "It's going to get to minus fifty out there tonight. In here, just with this shelter, we'll be at minus ten. Add two men's body heat and we can raise it another twenty degrees, more or less. Burning sterno gets another twenty eight." He pulled his cowl back, running a hand through his own sweaty hair as he met Clark's gaze. "But tomorrow we go out there again. Wet clothes will freeze on you, Clark—and it's going to be hard enough as it is. For you and for me."

"Great. Play the guilt card."

"Fine. Be the martyr." Bruce peeled off his gauntlets and unhooked his tattered cape. "Lean up." He wadded the torn black silk into a bundle, cramming it behind Clark, between his shoulder blades and the wall of the snow cave. "Now lean back," he said, his voice sharp and irritable. "Ever had stitches before, Superman?"

Clark exhaled, sagging against the cool, sleek fabric that cushioned the wall of snow behind him, feeling the cold creeping through the cape into his torso, the ice behind the back of his head—soothing its pounding throb, the soft grass under his legs. The pain coursing through his veins was slipping into something calmer, even though he was too mad at Bruce right now to be grateful. "What do you think?"

"I think tiger attacks make you a pain in the ass."

"Saber-toothed tiger." He only slurred the 's' a little. "Regular tiger's a piece of cake."

"Move your hand." Clark did, and knew he had to credit the drug with the fact that he could look at the bloody mess that was now his left leg with almost total detachment.

Bruce's eyes flicked to his, then back to the wound. "I've seen worse. You're going to be fine, Clark."

The first prick of the needle stung like a mosquito bite. The only thing that hurt was the movement of Bruce's fingers, pulling ragged skin together, reattaching something, maybe. He felt further and further from his body, but it was still disconcerting to see Bruce's hand reaching into the tissue of his leg. Superman closed his eyes.

"Stay awake long enough to drink more water, Clark." Bruce stopped stitching for a moment to swirl the melting cup of ice and move it a little closer to the flame. "Just a few minutes more."

"Not that tired." He opened his eyes and decided to focus on the top of Bruce's head, bent over his work. "Just resting."

Bruce nodded, fingers gliding with a smooth rhythm. "Talk to me. How are things on Earth, Clark?"

"They miss you."

The needle continued in and out. "Who have you seen lately?"

"Dick," Clark said, his tongue thick and lazy in his mouth. "Saw Dick."

"How is Dick?"

"Worried. Tim and Alfred, too."

"Well..." Bruce tied off the end of the suture line. "Lois is worried about you."

"Yeah." Clark shrugged and his shoulder protested. Nothing like it had been, but still quite unhappy. "Ow," he said, his mouth making a slow 'o'.

Bruce looked up, and Superman might be drugged, but he still knew the Bat-stare. The one where Bruce was figuring you out. "Leg's done," he said, handing Clark the cup. When he drank it, some of the water slipped down his chin, past his numb and uncooperative lips. "There better not be more drugs in here." He stared down at his S-shield and tried to brush off the errant drop.

Bruce swiped it away with his thumb. "No more." He almost smiled. "I don't want you comatose. Let's see that forearm." He rolled up the right sleeve of Superman's uniform. "Big bite span."

"Told you it was a saber-tooth." Clark's eyelids were heavy.

"Mostly puncture wounds. Bad ones. Never do anything halfway, do you Superman?"

Clark opened one eye. "Look who's talking."

"Not stitching puncture wounds." Bruce reached for the clasp on Superman's cape, tugging it from behind him to drape across his bare legs.

"Not that cold," Clark said. And he wasn't, body warm on one side—the side by the fire and—well, his other side was cold, now that he thought about it. It just felt like if he didn't concentrate, he was floating. Not the kind of floating he was used to, either. Although his butt did feel numb from the cold. His butt never felt numb when he flew...

"What?"

"Huh?"

"Thought you said something." Bruce moved to crouch beside him. "We need to take your shirt off, Superman. Need to work on your shoulder."

Clark nodded, feeling the pull of his terrible bite but not the pain. Nothing at least, like the raging, fiery ache of what… an hour ago? He had no idea.

Bruce slid his hands under the top of his uniform and pulled, rolling the shirt up to his armpits. "Raise your arms."

Clark complied. His arms were heavy, and he knew the painkillers were only masking how bad this should hurt, but he complied, tensing his muscles just in case. He couldn't get his left arm up very high—not high at all. This, he knew, would worry him more after the drugs wore off. Even now, it— "Can't go any—" Clark let his right arm drop to his side, ham-handed and heavy, and his left arm fall back the few inches he'd managed to raise it. It hurt.

"Lean up, Superman." He felt Bruce climb up on the platform behind him, felt Batman's Kevlar-covered armor behind his back, one large, warm hand splayed on his chest. "Let's try this one arm at a time. Raise your right."

Clark did, and Bruce skimmed the top of his uniform from that arm and over his head, then peeled the shirt from his bad shoulder and down his left arm.

The sound of Bruce's breathing came from very far away, even though he was just behind him, pulling away field dressing to study the bite at the juncture of his neck and shoulder. This one, at least, wasn't bleeding like the other. Still, Bruce was silent.

"What is it?"

"Gauging how many stitches. Going to leave a scar."

"Trust you," Clark said without opening his eyes. "Lots of practice."

"Yeah." There was the faintest touch of amusement in Bruce's voice. "Guilty as charged. Move your arm just an inch—"

He must not have done it right, because Bruce gently did it for him, then placed it by his side. The brown grass was scratchy under his fingers. "Where'd you get it?" Clark said, picturing the icy white abyss outside their shelter.

"What?"

"The grass."

Bruce's needle began its work. "Under the snow."

"When you buried the tiger." Clark hoped his words were intelligible, but he wasn't completely sure. "So the wolves won't come. How do you think of everything…"

"I don't." Bruce's voice was soft, but as steady as the needle piercing and repiercing his shoulder. "Not how to get us out of this hellhole."

"Yet." He heard his own words slow down, slur a little bit more. "You'll figure it out. What I don't know…" Clark felt his brows crease across his numb forehead. "I don't know how I'm going to get up that crevasse. Not like this."

"You will, and then you'll climb down the mountain, Clark. You're Superman."


	7. Chapter 7

Nothing moved, for once, in the eerily quiet, deathly still, ice-covered alien landscape. The snow had stopped falling and the wind had died down by the time Bruce climbed up and out of the crevasse where he and Superman had been forced to spend the night. He'd kept Clark alive, or more correctly, Clark had willed himself alive, and all night, trapped under the man's warm, heavy weight as he tried to keep an injured combatant insulated, Bruce thought about how to get back to base camp. He'd considered and discarded options several times during the night, through wakefulness and half-sleep and short naps as he mentally worried the problem like a dog with a bone, sorting and examining the possible solutions.

He'd vetoed pulling Clark up by litter for two reasons: pride and practicality. The pride was Clark's—as long as Clark could move of his own accord at all, he was unlikely to agree to lie in basket and allow himself to be pulled up a cliff. More practically, much as he hated to admit it, Bruce honestly didn't know if he'd be able, these lean days, to pull Clark and a piece of equipment up the sheer side of the cliff. Finally, and perhaps most importantly, while he had rope, he had little else out here in the field. Going back to camp was out of the question. He was not leaving Clark alone in his weakened state. So in the end, he did the best he could. It had to be enough.

Ropes wrapped around his waist and an anchor rock, Bruce crouched at the edge of the cliff, watching Clark, twenty feet below. The same ropes wrapped around Bruce, the ones he'd dragged up the mountain, were wrapped around Superman's waist, tied off at the belay with a mule knot, and formed into a makeshift harness with a series of Prusik knots, forming hand and footholds for an injured climber's support.

Stiffly, because the man's body must hurt like hell, Superman stepped into the ropes. One foot went into each Prusik knot, then Clark's hands slipped into chest-high loops on the pull ropes.

"Ready?" Bruce called down.

Clark tugged with the ready sign, and Bruce started hauling.

Hand over hand; feet slowly finding the footholds Bruce had gouged into the ice and rock, Clark made his way up the side of the cliff. It was a slow, awkward go, but he didn't flag once. The man who'd almost had his arm torn off; who'd had his neck and shoulder shredded, who'd almost died from loss of blood, worked like the fighter and hero he was, dragging his injured, broken body up the mountain.

Bruce lay down on his stomach as Clark got within a few feet, and as soon as he was close enough, grabbed, wrapping his hands around Clark's forearms. He huffed and Clark groaned, finding another foothold, pushing his body upwards. Superman's uniform was slick, and both the fabric itself and the thin layer of dampness combined were more slippery than Bruce had counted on. He tried to readjust, clamping his grip down harder on Clark's arm, but his hold still slid. Clark cried out, only once before he bit it back, just one short, sharp yelp, as his torn shoulder was wrenched. Bruce swore, and felt the man's forearm slide in his grasp until he was only holding Clark's wrist.

"Damn it, Clark!" Bruce heaved, breathing hard and fast as he shuffled backwards on his knees, away from the abyss, dragging Clark with him. "I'm sorry," he ground out under his breath, yanking —it was the only way he could get him out and over the edge, and he hated himself for the way it hurt the man he was trying to save.

The rope strung around the anchor rock strained, and Bruce dug more deeply into the snow as he moved back, digging down with his feet and his elbows. Clark fought his way up, finally getting his own elbows up over the ledge, and used that advantage to drag himself up and over, finally flopping onto his back in the snow.

He landed beside Bruce, who rolled over onto his own back, both of them panting heavily. They lay there, silent except for their labored breaths, for a long moment. Snow began to fall, soft and lazy.

"Ready?" Bruce finally said again, and Clark took a single deep breath before nodding his assent, his chin jutting out stubborn and defiant, even though the movement cost him—Bruce could tell from the way his face tensed with the effort. He helped Superman stand.

Down was easier—down the other side of the mountain, and this time Clark went first, again in the Prusik knots, again the two of them roped together. All Bruce got in response to requests for his status were one word affirmatives, but he was glad to get those, as tired and pained as they sounded.

At the base of the mountain, they detoured west. Superman raised a questioning eyebrow, too exhausted to even ask why. It wasn't the way they'd come.

"I've got a plan," Bruce said, and for Clark, that was enough. He nodded, just barely, limping forward, shrugging off Bruce's offer of assistance until he was almost pitching forward with each step. His lips were blue and Bruce figured that at least the movement was warming him some—the clumsy, plodding, painful steps—but he was glad when Clark finally accepted an arm around his back to lean on.

Gladder still when the shuttle craft was in sight—the craft he'd crashed.

Superman whistled, the first sound he'd made voluntarily in a long, quiet trudge. "You're lucky you survived, Bruce."

The thing was as he'd left it when he'd given it up for better shelter, nose caved in the force of the crash, body mostly shredded metal and bared undercarriage, half-filled with blowing snow.

"Sit down?" Bruce said hopefully, dragging a piece of wreckage from the interior—some torn piece of plastic that even he hadn't seen the point of scavenging yet.

"What are you—" Clark's words were garbled with the cold. "Are we resting here?" His eyes were clouded with pain, but also with hope. "Can we rest? Just for a minute, Bruce."

"Yes," Bruce said softly. "Just for a minute."

Superman sagged down heavily, and Bruce went to work. He moved as fast as he could, but it wasn't an easy task. By the time he'd dragged the cargo door off—unbolted it and wrenched it from the ship, Clark was a huddled, half-frozen figure barely even shivering in the snow. Bruce wished he had something—anything—to cover the man, but even his cape was only a handful of tatters now, the scraps he hadn't used to bandage Superman shoved into his utility belt. The temperature was dropping steadily, dropping with the setting of the cruel alien sun.

"Wish I'd left a blanket on board, Clark—a tarp, anything." But Clark didn't hear him, and of course, Bruce hadn't left anything behind. He'd cannibalized everything he could get out of the wreck. Except for the door, and he slid it over the packed snow toward Superman.

Bruce knotted ropes around the door's hinges, through a panel, and then formed looped, knotted handholds, so that he could pull it back to camp. "Clark?"

He didn't respond.

Bruce let the ropes drop. "Superman?" he said, brushing snow from the man's dark hair.

Superman raised his muzzy head, watching him through half-lidded eyes.

"Got to get up, Superman." Bruce helped him to his feet with a hand under each armpit. "Up, Clark," he whispered into Clark's snow-dusted hair.

Clark complied, and Bruce dragged him, groaning with the exertion. He lifted, and Superman ended up slipping from his arms in a heap, landing heavily on the ship's door. Bruce swept the man's legs onto the sheet of metal.

"There, Clark," Bruce said, mostly to himself. "Stay with me, Superman," he said into the man's hair, brushing the damp snow from his dark locks, then his cheek. Clark was pale, but still there, still alive. "You're a fighter, Superman. A fighter and a hero. Stay with me. We're going home."


	8. Chapter 8

**Log Book, Day 61**

0219 hours:

Returned to base camp 1 hour ago. S resting, still suffering the effects of exsanguination. Hypovolemia evident through elevated pulse, delayed capillary refill, etc. IV to begin as soon as saline formulation completed, target time: 3 hours. Have administered vasoconstrictors (dopamine) to constrict blood vessels/ increase internal blood pressure.

1100 hours:

Saline, electrolytes administered on schedule. S's condition continues to worsen. Shows classic signs of hypovelmic shock, including confusion, anxiety and agitation in addition to decreased systolic pressure and marked tachycardia. Assessing possible treatment options. It is not known whether my blood type is compatible.

**Log Book, Day 62**

0820 hours: S's condition has not improved. Only one possible blood donor available. I am O negative, and while a universal donor under normal conditions, these conditions are neither normal—nor optimal—in any way.

1000 hours: Crossmatch drawn, currently testing.

1430 hours: Crossmatch complete. Results attached. Based on the findings, I am considering drastic measures.

1515: Left with no other viable options, have administered test percentage to S. Subject under observation for fever, chills, hypotension, hypertension and hives, but as of yet, there are no observable or measurable ill effects. (Subject not conscious, it is not possible to ascertain pain along the IV infusion line, chest or back.)

1900 hours: It is regrettable that this situation cannot be discussed with S prior to full trial. S should be apprised of possible side effects of a blood transfusion reaction, but S has not regained consciousness. I am fighting the effects of sleep deprivation and cannot be counted on to monitor his condition much longer without losing some of my efficiency and accuracy. Briefly lost consciousness during withdrawal and took more than originally planned. If S. has not improved by the time my blood is ready, I am going to give him the transfusion, p. via central line protocol.

* * *

Bruce added more grass and moss to the small fire, along with a single precious piece of wood. The cave was ridiculously warm, compared to the snow shelter of two nights before—but still, Bruce was shaking as he hung the IV bag, heavy with his own blood. He willed his hands steady and fought the exhaustion trying to overtake him.

Superman was still now—deathly still, but apparently he'd been agitated earlier, probably thrashing and confused, alone and probably frightened while Bruce had prepped the blood—or maybe when he'd lost consciousness—and once again, he'd ripped out his catheter.

"Clark," Bruce said, kneeling beside the cot. "I won't leave you alone again." There was no response. Clark's face was pale and lifeless, too white and too cold. Bruce patted the man's cheek, then his arm. Superman didn't move, eyes closed, lashes extra dark against too-white skin.

Taking Clark's elbow, Bruce stroked down to find the vein, and Superman didn't flinch when Bruce drove the new needle in. "It's mine, Clark," Bruce said softly. "I tested it, tried a small transfusion—I think it'll work." He looked up at the bag of the blood he'd drained from his own veins, hanging from the makeshift hook rigged above them, and watched the line of dark red fluid snake downwards towards Clark's body.

Bruce forced his numb, treacherous fingers to tuck the fur more closely around Clark's body, cover the man's bared, damp skin. Then he dragged the other pelt around himself, edges scooting over the dirt so he could wrap it around his torso, huddled on the floor of the cave beside the cot.

He kept his eyes open as long as he could, and even when they closed against his will, Bruce kept his hand over Clark's heart, palm to his chest, feeling his heartbeat. Every so often his head would dip forward, and Bruce would realized he'd slipped into sleep, because the jerk of his head tipping forward would rouse him and he'd blink, waking himself with the movement.

Every time it happened, he'd search again for Clark's pulse, letting its steady, sluggish beat reassure him just a little. So far, so good. Superman was a fighter, and he'd made it this far. Then Bruce's eyes would drift closed again and the process would repeat itself, until it finally wasn't enough—just the jerk forward wasn't enough to wake him, but the feel of his head hitting Clark's body did. The tenth or twentieth or thirtieth time his nose hit Clark's chest, sending pain into the space between his eyes, Bruce turned his head, let it drop on bare skin and breath in the smell of Clark and his skin—and even though he'd done his best to keep things clean and hygienic, the scent of dirt and grime and sweat. Sometime much later, Bruce finally did slip into unconsciousness, slumped down on his knees on the cave floor, head resting on Superman's bare chest, ear to the man's heart.


	9. Chapter 9

The next few days passed in a haze for Clark—sleeping and waking, but never staying awake for very long, even when he fought the lethargy that tried to take over his body. Dreams that seemed like reality, reality that seemed like dreams—they all ran one into the other. Through it all, two things remained: pain, deep in his bones, and Bruce, beside him. Beside him in his restless dreams, beside him when he was shivering and hurting. Bruce would be there and then Clark could relax, as much as his body would let him, find a certain kind of solace. Small moments of ease, of touch or softness or warmth—coursing over or against him, and Clark curled into the comfort, sank deeply into the brief respite that came with these moments of ritual.

He'd wake, swimming up from deep, fathomless sleep to feel warm water sluicing over his wounds, stinging a little, but not hurting, not really. Not enough to do more than make his eyelids flutter before they were too heavy to hold up, before the smooth, gently flowing feel of the warm, wet cloth cleansed his neck, his arms, his face—pushed him back toward some re-relaxed dream state. Restored him, somehow, everywhere Bruce touched. Bruce would push him up, wedging a knee under his back to lift him off of the cot, then healing heat would bathe his skin, lulling and soothing. It was followed by something soft drying away the dampness, and then he'd be lowered down again, to sleep and to mend.

Clark wasn't sure how many times it had happened, the day he was finally able to get his eyes truly open, to say something. He didn't even know what to say, blinking up at Bruce, who'd just lowered him back down and was now cleansing the wound on his leg, bent over his task. Just the top of Bruce's head was visible, hair dark and shining, and Clark tried to lift a hand to touch it. He wasn't sure why he was drawn to touch it, to run his fingers through dark, soft locks, anymore than he was sure why the idea was met with excruciating pain. His arm protested, loudly and immediately, pain shooting through from his armpit to the tips of his fingers. Clark dropped his hand, letting it fall with a heavy thud back to land on the pelt that covered him.

Bruce stopped his work and looked up at him, dark-circled eyes tired but hopeful. "Clark?" he said softly, a smile in his voice but not on his face.

"Yeah," Clark said, and his voice croaked like he'd been stranded on a desert for weeks. "Yeah, Bruce."

Bruce smiled then, just a curl at the edges of his mouth. "Good."

"Drink some water."

Clark blinked up at him, disoriented. "Where… "

Bruce lifted Clark's head and the pain was there again, driving all other thoughts out and away.

"Ow."

"I know," Bruce said. "I've cut back your pain meds."

"What? No, no drugs, Bruce."

Bruce's hand on the back of his neck was insistent. "Drink some water."

"Ow, Bruce!"

"That's louder and more coherent than you've been in days, Clark," Bruce said, eyes crinkling. "Good for you. Now drink." He tipped the metal cup and water flowed into Clark's dry, parched mouth.

It hit the back of his throat and Clark snorted, choking.

"Take it easy; drink, don't inhale." Bruce patted his good shoulder, letting his head lower down to rest on the cot. "Rest. I'll wake you again in an hour."

And Bruce did, although this time, the cup was warm when he brought it to Clark's lips, with a scent that made his stomach rumble. Bruce tipped the cup and a thin soup of some kind sluiced over Clark's tongue.

Then next time he came to, his back was propped up—Clark couldn't turn to see what it was, but obviously some kind of makeshift pillow, and Bruce was washing his shoulder. "Nice of you to join the land of the living," Bruce said with a small smile. He reached for something near the fire and then crouched beside him, again with the metal cup. "Tea," Bruce said, holding it out.

"Tea?"

"With sugar. I figured you like sugar in your tea."

"Tea," Clark said again.

"Hot beverages are good for morale, Clark," Bruce reached for Clark's right wrist, placing the cup in his hand. "Can you hold it?"

"Yeah, Bruce." He let his fingers curve around the cup, warmed metal comforting his palm. "I just don't—" Clark lifted the thing toward his mouth, and the cup shook in his grasp. "Bruce, I—"

"Shh, Clark. It's okay." Bruce wrapped his own hand around the mug and helped him lift it to his mouth.

"It's good."

Bruce helped him bring the thing down, then took it from him. "More?"

Clark rolled his eyes at himself, at his helplessness.

"It won't last forever," Bruce said, reading his mind. "You're on the mend, Clark. Just hurry it up." He raised an eyebrow, and Clark knew it was a challenge. Bruce lifted the tea to his lips, and Clark drank. "I want to get to that cave you found, and you're going to have to give me directions."

For a moment Clark wasn't sure if he was dreaming or awake and he didn't care at all. Until he moaned and realized he'd just moaned out loud, and even though it felt like heaven, he definitely was probably not—okay, he wasn't dreaming. He fought his way to surface from this euphoria: a warm, damp towel on his neck, his cheeks, patting his face. Clark sighed as he swam up from unconsciousness, basking in the feeling. Slowly he opened his eyes to see Bruce, looking at him with the barest hint of a smile. He was working up a soapy lather with a brush and a piece of soap.

"Morning," Bruce said. "How's the patient?"

"Recov—" Clark cleared his voice, hoarse with sleep. "Recovering."

"Water?"

"Yeah."

Bruce brought a cup to his lips, tipping it for him. "Drink it all."

He swallowed most of it, the dryness easing in his throat.

"More?"

"No." Clark squinted at him. He felt just a little too… warm, really. Too warm and content for lying broken in an arctic cave, and not quite in his body—separate from the pain that he could still feel just around the edges of his consciousness. "Are there drugs in there?"

"Pain meds, but not much." Bruce put the cup down and picked the soap up again.

So that explained the comforting—and completely false—sense of well-being. "No more drugs, Bruce."

"Alright, Clark." Bruce swirled the shaving brush into the soap. "I thought we could use all the help we could get for a while. You're not an easy patient, Superman."

Clark had to smile at that, as a warm glow bloomed in his chest. "I'm lucky," he said.

Bruce's right eyebrow went up. "Trust you to find the bright side of getting mauled by a tiger."

"I wouldn't be here right now if it wasn't for you, Bruce. You're so—" Clark's voice went a little hoarse and he stopped, blinking back the rush of feeling that was trying to overwhelm him.

"Ah," Bruce said, "that's opiates talking." He raised a lather-covered brush. "Besides, you give me a pretty good run for my money. Lift your chin," he said, fingers an inch from Clark's jaw.

It hurt, but Clark complied, anticipation curling in his body for the sensation of touch and soft soap. He lifted his face to Bruce's.

Bruce painted a line of lather along Clark's jawbone.

"I don't usually shave—"

"Wouldn't have worked," Bruce said, practical like always. The brush swept over Clark's cheek, and then Bruce's thumb was under his ear, urging him to turn slightly. He did, and Bruce repeated the soothing movement there.

"Guess it's time for me to get used to how things are n—" Clark tried to say, and suddenly, appallingly, his voice broke into a whisper on the last word. He closed his mouth with a click.

"Time to learn how the other half lives," Bruce finished for him. He scooped soap in his hand and strong, deft fingers smoothed more lather over the lower half of Clark's face. "Don't talk," he said, as he worked the soap around Clark's mouth and jaw.

Clark pressed his lips together, signaling his cooperation with his eyes.

"Not so bad, how the other half lives," Bruce said, holding up a razor. He let it rest against Clark's jaw and then pulled it up his cheek, a scraping sweep. "Not really."

Clark blinked at him, breathing and getting himself together, and then the razor was back, working toward his ear. Bruce's hand on his chin moved his head gently, coaxing it where it needed to go.

It was rhythmic and soothing, the warmth and the movement, the pull of the razor, Bruce's fingers curling against the nape of his neck as he steadied him, the scent of soap and of Bruce, the comfort of his voice, how it felt when he touched his face. Clark let his eyes fall shut again.

"How's the pain?"

Clark answered without opening his eyes, feeling the lush warm soap smoothing over his face, lulling him. "I've felt better."

"Really?"

He cracked one eye. "Not lately."

"You've been out, lately." Bruce's thumb slipped under the turn at the end of his jaw, lifting up so he could smear lather along the underside of his chin.

"How long?" he said, his own voice sounding distant, preoccupied.

"Were you out?" Bruce asked, then said, "Be still."

The razor scraped over Clark's jaw and Clark forgot the question, lulled by the repetitive, rough-smooth slide over his skin. Bruce's thumb and forefinger softly grasped his chin, tilting Clark's head for better access, and the action was repeated on the other side. It went on for long, quiet minutes, Bruce moving him where he needed, either with a gentle hold on his chin or a nudge at the base of his jaw.

Clark's mind drifted a little. "So many lights," he said, something vague but insistent creeping at the edge of his memory. "There were, weren't there?"

"Aurora Borealis." Bruce sloshed the razor in a cup of water to rinse it. "Other side, please," he said, tilting Clark's head.

"Yeah." Clark said, thinking of a cold, arctic night and being pulled along in a sled, an icy sky filled with color and lights. "Northern lights."

"First time I've seen it here was the night we came back to base camp."

"Seen it again?"

"Every night since."

"Could be important. Intense solar activity."

"I know. I'm tracking it."

"And wolves," Clark said, blinking as the memory flooded back. "Did wolves attack, or did I dream that?"

"Tried to."

"You fought them off."

"It wasn't very difficult," Bruce said. "Compared to the prehistoric cat you decided to… what do you farm people call it? Hog wrestle."

Clark snorted. "You're the one who killed it. I would've been tiger chow."

Bruce opened his mouth to respond but Clark interrupted. "And don't say I already iam/i tiger chow.

"I did an excellent job stitching you up." Hand under Clark's chin, Bruce wiped away the soapy residue and surveyed his handiwork. "And I won't have my surgical sewing skills mocked."

"Sound like Alfred there, Bruce."

Bruce's eyes went a little sad before his brows knitted together. "There's something I need to tell you," he said. "I took a risk. You should know that."

"What, making soup?"

One side of Bruce's mouth curved up in a smile. "Ha, ha," he said. "Sarcasm doesn't become you, Superman."

"Just because you want that to be your shtick."

"I gave you a blood transfusion, Clark."

Whatever he'd been expecting, that wasn't it. "You shouldn't have done that."

"I know. It was a risk to put you through—"

Clark frowned at him. "Not me, you."

"Giving blood is hardly dangerous. As for you… I felt as though it was the only option."

"I trust you, Bruce."

"It could have gone badly, Clark."

"It didn't."

"It could have."

"Are you… " Clark tried to figure out what point Bruce was trying to make. "Are you feeling guilty? Feeling guilty for saving my life?"

"I just thought you should know, Clark."

"Okay, yeah. I know. I know now." Clark said, letting his eyes drift shut again. He could listen with his eyes closed. "And thanks."

"I'm sorry I couldn't ask you first."

Clark's eyebrows knitted, but he didn't bother to open his eyes. "Next time you're unconscious, I'll make some call for you. Got any more of that soup?"

"I'll warm it up."

"Good," Clark said. "And if you want to get to work on those directions to the cave?"

"I've already sketched out some maps of the area."

Clark's lip quirked up in a small smile. "Of course you have, Bruce."

"Well," Bruce said, standing. "You've been pretty lazy the past few days. Somebody had to do something productive."

"Speaking of doing something? Soup? Maps?"

"I knew you were a difficult patient."

Clark let his eyes rest for just a moment longer, but he could still hear the smile in Bruce's voice. "I'll try to get with the program, Batman."

"You do that, Superman."


	10. Chapter 10

Logbook:

Day 71, 08:14:21 hours

S. still compromised but not incapacitated. Not healing as quickly as hoped, but conditions here are not ideal. No infection.  
Trap #2 productive as of 0600 hours. Small rodent, similar to arctic collared lemming acquired.  
Storm is finally abating. I intend to seek out cave S. discovered upon his arrival.

11:06:17 hours Located cave. Full report to follow.

Bruce pulled off his furs as he entered base camp. He butchered the animal in the outer chamber, burying the entrails and refuse. Then he cleaned his hands and picked up the newly acquired roll of bandages with something that felt very close to a real smile on his face.

Clark, however, was not smiling. He half-sat, half-lay on the cot, big bare shoulders covered in nothing but the rags of Batman's cape, torn into strips to tie around and bandage his wounds. Slumped against a makeshift pillow, the Man of Steel nodded, but didn't say anything.

Bruce reached for a cup and poured some coffee from the pot on the fire. "Coffee?"

Clark sighed as he took the cup. "Yeah."

"Have some sugar." Bruce handed him a packet. Clark's eyes flicked to his, really focusing on him for the first time that day. "Can we spare it?"

"We're celebrating."

"What are we celebrating?"

"For starters, I went out—"

"Good thing one of us can," Clark said, almost under his breath.

Bruce poured himself the last dregs of the coffee. "Rabbit for dinner. Or breakfast. How are you today, by the way?"

"Been better."

"You've been a lot worse, too."

Clark didn't answer, sipping his coffee and staring off at one of the cave's shadowy corners.

"Speaking of," Bruce said, allowing himself the tiniest of flourishes as he produced the roll of gauze he'd been hiding, "We should change your bandages."

Clark's mouth dropped open for a second, then closed again as his gaze went from the bandages to Bruce and then back again. "Where the hell did you get that?"

Bruce pursed his mouth a little as he swallowed a mouthful of bitter coffee. "Hell? Really? Superman throws out iHell/i now?"

Clark scowled but did correct his language. "Where'd you get that?"

"I made it to the cave you found."

"They were there?"

Bruce nodded, downing the last of his coffee and putting down the cup. "Indeed. Plus… a few other things."

"You always such a tease?"

"Ah, there's the Clark I know." Bruce patted the uninjured part of the man's shoulder. "Lean up and I'll tell you while we do this." He started unwinding the roll of bandage and moved to wedge himself behind Clark, half sitting on the cot with a knee bracing the man's back.

Clark huffed out a harsh breath. "That my kidney you're digging into?"

"You tell me, alien," Bruce said, but he did shift his knee a little. "Hold this." He gave Clark the roll of gauze, reaching around to put it in his good hand, and pulled out his knife.

From his position directly behind the man, Bruce couldn't see his face, but Clark obviously heard the knife's snick as the blade extended. "So I guess it's the end of the Bat cape."

"Sorry to see it go?"

"It's iyour/i cape."

"Well only ione/i of us has a cape that's invinci—" Superman—Clark's shoulders tensed at that, so Bruce changed course. "Served us well." He slid the knife's blade between the fabric of the cape and the bare flesh of Clark's upper arm. "Going to start cutting. You'll feel a pull."

"I'm fine. The cave?"

Bruce ripped through the makeshift bandage. "Someone's been here before us."

"Yeah, I saw the set up, Bruce. A fire-ring, some tools—"

"Soviets."

"What?"

"You heard me. Deep breath." He pulled the bandage away from the wound.

"You don't have to go easy." Clark grumbled. "I can take it."

"There's some fresh bleeding. I should've… Hand me the gauze."

Clark reached behind himself with his good hand and did, and Bruce cut a square, pressing it to the spot that had been reopened, applying pressure. "Here." He passed the roll of bandages back. "Need both hands to re-wrap this."

"How…" Clark said slowly. "How'd they get here? And how long ago?"

"Not sure yet." He tested the gauze he'd been pressing to the wound. It had stopped bleeding; only two layers red with blood. He pulled it away, gently. "Stitches look good, Clark."

"Had a good surgeon. Tell me more about the cave."

"Pass me the end of that roll, please? You hold the rest. We're going to need to raise your left arm, Clark. How far can you do it yourself?"

"Not very." Clark's voice went husky. "I was practicing earlier."

"Show me," Bruce said softly.

Clark's biceps and triceps and trapezoids all flexed. Bruce could feel them move under his fingers—see the muscles working—but Clark's hand only lifted about six inches.

"That's right."

Then, in mid-air, it started to tremble, little shudders starting at the fingertips and spreading up the arm.

Bruce stretched out his own, extending it from behind Clark, holding it two inches higher in the air. "Can you touch mine?"

Clark was watching his progress, and Bruce watched the familiar set of Superman's jaw as he firmed his resolve. His arm began to shake harder, but he lifted it a few millimeters closer to his target.

"Almost there," Bruce said, feeling his own breath bounce off of Clark's cheek.

Clark's eyes closed as he concentrated. Sweat was forming—almost imperceptible, but Bruce saw it—on the side of his face, his forehead. His jaw line and neck. The man had to be grinding his teeth hard enough to shatter something. The palsy in his arm worsened until Bruce had to give in, had to close the distance between their hands, grasping Clark's in his own.

Clark opened his eyes and blinked, then looked away, turning his head so that Bruce couldn't read his expression. But he returned the pressure—some of it, anyway, as he squeezed Bruce's hand for a moment. His breathing slowly returned to normal and against his chest, Bruce felt the man relax. He watched the bicep and triceps ease their tension, then began winding the gauze around Clark's wound.

"Soviets," he said again. It came out a little ragged, so he cleared his throat. "I don't know how or why yet, but a team, looks like. At least four men were in that cave for a while."

"How'd they…"

"Get here? I'm not sure, but I have a hunch. I'm going to have—we're going to have to investigate further."

Clark sighed. "Look, ithanks/i, but don't sugarcoat it."

"What?" Bruce could hear the irritation growing in his own voice.

"iYou're/i going to be the one doing the investigating. I'm useless."

Bruce threaded the gauze for its last pass between Clark's torso and arm—a little rougher than all the other passes, then tore the strip off with his teeth. "Don't talk like that." He let Clark's hand drop to tie the bandage and tucked the ends underneath.

"It's the truth."

"No it's not." Bruce said, shoving Superman's weight hard enough to climb out from under him.

"I can't help in any—"  
"Shut up, Clark." He rounded the cot and knelt by the other side to pull the fur away enough to expose a bare leg, bound with the black strips of his cape, and focused on getting the old bandage off.

"I can't even… I can't even take care of myself. Have to be shaved, helped to the bathroom, practically fed—"

Bruce glared at him. "Done feeling sorry for yourself?"

"Bruce, if you—if something had happened to you today while you were out—"

"What?" Bruce sliced through the shreds of fabric, gritting his teeth. "You'd be alone and helpless? You'd find a way, Clark. You could make it even if—"

"That's not what I mean." Clark scrubbed at his face.

Bruce looked up long enough to raise an eyebrow.

Clark sighed. "If you'd been… you'd been hurt somehow—attacked by some animal, dropped into some crevasse…" Bruce lifted Clark's knee to reach the underside of his thigh and the fur that covered his groin and jock shifted. Clark scowled, yanking it back to cover himself.

Bruce growled and shoved the thing over far enough to work on the leg, sliding gauze between the cot and the meat of Clark's thigh. "Yeah?" he finally said when Clark clammed up.

"I couldn't," Clark started, and now his voice broke a little. "You'd be all alone out there, and I wouldn't be able to help you. All alone in the cold and snow and I'd be in here, all warm and useless and not even knowing—"

Bruce snorted, finally making eye contact again. "Warm? It's freezing in here." He felt his mouth curve despite himself, just slightly.

"Well," Clark said, shrugging, then immediately wincing at the pain the movement caused. "It's not as cold as outside…"

Bruce gave him his most deadpan look and Clark's words trailed off, a smile creeping, slow and small, but it was there. More in Clark's eyes than anything else. Bruce's own smile grew a little too. "This the kind of fact-based reporting that passes for investigative journalism these days?"

"Don't mock my profession, Bruce." It was Clark's old tone of voice, and Bruce felt something in his chest that had been tense unclench a little at the sound.

He wrapped two more layers of gauze around Clark's thigh. "I'm so cold most of the time I can't feel my nose."

Clark grinned, leaning back in the makeshift pillow. "I wake up shaking at night sometimes."

"Should try the floor."

"Why iare/i you sleeping on the floor? Told you it's ridiculous. Coldest place you could pick."

Bruce shrugged, tying off the bandage and cutting the end, before carefully tucking the edges under. He stood. "I've got something to show you," he said over his shoulder as he headed for the outer chamber. In minutes, he was back, holding the animal carcass in one hand, two notebooks in the other. "Take a look at this." He handed Clark one of the books.

"What is it?"

"Found it in the cave." Bruce turned, putting his back to Clark while he skewered dinner on a pointed stick.

"Don't have to keep blocking my view when you do that," Clark said, flipping through pages. "I know those aren't rabbits that we're eating."

Bruce grunted a meaningless response. Then: "What do you think of the book?"

"I think it's a logbook of some kind."

"Thought so too." Bruce put the lemming on the spit and moved to look over his shoulder.

"But the code… any ideas?"

"Working on it, but no—not so far. How's your Russian?"

"Passable."

Bruce held out the other book he held in his hand. "This one's not in code. You want the decoding or translating from Russian?"

"Decoding," Clark said, not looking up from the page. I recognize something—a pattern."

Bruce handed him a pencil. "Take notes." On the floor beside him, Bruce leaned back against the cot, opening his own book and getting to work himself. The smell of roasting meat filled the cave and they passed the next hour in companionable silence, except for the sizzle of the fire, the scrape of scribbling pencils and the soft sound of turning pages. 


	11. Chapter 11

They slept and when they woke Bruce returned to further explore the Soviet cave while Clark pored over the notebooks. From the logbook a story began to emerge, and the story began in 1972 as a classified operation by the Soviet Space Program. A mission that was in some ways routine became very extraordinary and then very wrong.

There was a noise and Clark looked up. "How do you do that?"

"Do what?" Bruce said, from the passage into the smaller chamber, something in his arms.

"Just emerge from the shadows." Clark clicked the pen in his hand. "Every. Damn. Time."

"I'll try to make more of an entrance next time."

Clark almost snorted because he'd meant it was an entrance but he knew Bruce knew that too. "What've you got?"

It was clothing, and Bruce shoved some of it under his arm and unfurled the other. "Flight suits."

"What?" Clark grinned. "What?"

"Yeah." Bruce looked, in that strange way he could sometimes look—sheepish. "I don't know about you but I could do with a change of clothes." Bruce dropped the suits and they fell half on the cot and half on Clark's legs. "Try it on," he said, and then he started stripping himself, pulling off panels and Kevlar. "I got the two biggest ones but it's not…" His words were muffled as he dragged the top half of his Batsuit over his head. "I've lost some weight," he said.

"You and me both. Does yours fit?"

"Hope so." He hooked his hands under his pants and stripped off the torn remains, then rolled his eyes at himself. "Move your legs," he said and Clark did. Bruce sat beside him and pulled off his boots. When he had them off he looked up from where he was setting them on the floor of the cave. "Well?"

Clark hefted the thick olive green fabric. "Pretty good shape for being forty years old."

"Better shape than either one of us ." Bruce skinned a shredded piece of fabric from his leg.

"You need to get yourself an indestructible uniform."

Bruce stepped into the legs and stood, sliding his hands into the sleeves. "Yeah. Working on that." He eyeballed Clark, shirtless and mostly pantsless under the furs and raised an eyebrow. "I was going to talk to you about putting on some damn clothes, period." He zipped himself up and ran a hand over the nametag sewn across the front of the thing and then looked at the nametag on Clark's. "Just call me Koslov, Baranova."

"They're clean," Clark said, leaning against the cave wall, folding up red and blue after he'd gotten his own flight suit zipped. It fit just fine.

Bruce grunted and looked up from the book, where he was picking from Clark's last place.

"Cleaner than what we had on."

"Clark. We're filthy."

"Doesn't that strike you as odd?"

"Hot springs."

"What?"

"There's a hot spring under the cave." Bruce paused as he made another note in the margin. "Part of what makes the cave itself warmer."

"I hadn't noticed."

"You took a bad hit when you ruined my signal tower." Bruce crooked a half-smile. "But I brought back a sample—"

"Old habits die hard, Boy Scout."

"That's you, remember?" He went back to the book and said, "I also found human remains."

"Where?"

"In one of the back chambers." He tapped the page he was reading. "Did you find any references?"

"About that? No. Not yet, anyway."

Bruce nodded. "I doubt it's anything beyond natural causes but regardless. I sampled the water for content and it's fine."

Clark sat down next to him on the cot and did not grimace when his leg screamed at him for all the movement. "You think we should relocate."

Bruce, who had pretended to ignore the stiff, clumsy way Clark had more fallen than sat down on the cot, did look at him now. "Yes. When we can."

Logbook, Day 74

Relocating and moving base camp from current location to the Soviet cave, now dubbed Camp Sputnik. Details to follow.

It was not an easy move. The break in the storm did not hold the entire distance and the wind and the snow and the ice beat down upon them, battering them and slowing them down and Bruce cursed himself for not knowing that the weather wouldn't hold and for giving in and not waiting until Clark was stronger. It took hours and in the end, Clark was staggering and then he would fall but he got up again every time. He would not let Bruce talk him into taking a break on the sled, loaded with their meager supplies, which Bruce dragged behind them, a rope pulled over his shoulder.

"There's room."

"No."

"We could rest."

"No."

It took hours longer than it would have taken otherwise, but in the end they staggered into the Soviets' cave, Bruce's arm around Clark, half-carrying, half-dragging him and they'd stumbled forward and both collapsed on a crudely fashioned cot some other men, in some other time, had cobbled together in a probably futile attempt to try and survive this hellhole. It was bigger than the one Bruce had made but they still had to turn over onto their sides and fit like spoons and Bruce wrapped his arms around Clark's newly clad body and rubbed his arms until he stopped shaking and fell asleep.

It took Bruce longer. He was dead tired but for some reason sleep didn't come, so he mentally reviewed his list: all the things they had to do before they could set off. They had the barest blueprint of a plan now, and it comforted him, both the plan and the list, a strategy and a set of steps. He breathed in the scent of the cave and reviewed the list and was finally able to sleep.


	12. Chapter 12

Koslov's journal, translated from Russian:

20.6.1972: Three days here. Craft damaged beyond repair, abandoned for cave shelter. Radio salvaged but damaged. Mashchenko has broken rib, blood loss and head injury. Baranova, myself unaffected. No sign of crew of _Voskhod 7_.

21.6.1972: Possible distress call received. Origin unknown, Baranova unsure as to whether it is a true call or anomaly based on weather conditions.

22.6.1972: Radio cannot yet send messages. Three more distress calls received, standard code: Mayday. Identifying source: _Voskhod 7_. Pinpointing origin of signal.

#########################

Steam rose around him and Clark tipped his head back, leaning against warm rock worn smooth by millions of years of water, wearing it away drop by drop. He looked up, where once he could have seen through a mountain to see the sky. To see the sky and the sun and the sun beyond it and the next sun beyond that one. But now there was only darkness there, and all he could see was what was near him, surrounded, like he was, in an amber sphere cast by the golden glow of a torch. Once he could have heard the sounds of the storm outside, or even something close, like Bruce moving around in a cave above him, preparing food or repairing equipment or tending the fire. But now there was only silence, broken by the occasional drip of condensation.

He forced himself to stay in the water, just a few minutes longer; let it do its work. Let it soothe and repair his aching muscles so that he could tear and build them again, make them stronger. The climb was going to start with glaciers, and there was no way he was going to be the liability on the lifeline. At least, he didn't want to be.

Somewhere above him in the pitch black cold, water seeped through miles of stone. It filtered and dripped down stalactites hanging hundreds of feet above. A drop fell beside him in the water, sending out ripples of gold across the surface of the small pool, and Clark dragged his finger through the tiny waves, disrupting the perfect, concentric rings. He gripped the rim of the pool and pulled himself up out of the water. Enough waiting. Toweling off as best he could he grabbed his shorts and the heaviest of the makeshift barbells.

He was halfway through his second routine when his entire right side locked up, and that, of course, was the moment Bruce chose to join him. He dumped a bundle of sticks near the pool and came closer. His flight suit was grimy at the knees so he must have been crawling around on the floor of the cave sketching again and although Clark barely had the energy to finish his set, he fronted. There was a reason nobody knew Clark Kent was Superman. He was a damn good actor. "Any progress on the map?"

"I want you to come and debrief me again on our guy's route. " Unzipping his flight suit and stripping down to his boxers, Bruce dusted his hands. "You translated his plan post-treeline." Bruce hefted the other weight in the pile before looking up to study Clark closely, eyes unreadable. "How many more?"

"Three," Clark lied, working to keep his movements smooth. He inhaled on the flex, exhaled on the release and got through the next

rep without his arm trembling, but only just barely. Concentrating hard, he startled when Bruce's hand came down on his right shoulder, cool against place where his injury had been, palm catching a little on the scar left behind, and right over the taunt ball of angry muscle and nerves, where the real injury still lay.

"You're planking," Bruce said, or something like it. Clark didn't know what that was and he didn't have the energy to ask but he nodded, arm frozen in place for a moment, glad it was a steam room down here already, hiding the sweat he could feel forming on his forehead.

"Overcompensating for the injured muscle." Bruce reached for the weight he'd held and Clark's hand made a fist around nothing.

Focusing, Clark gracefully brought his hand down to his lap, as fluid and smooth as he could, fighting back a shudder. "We're running out of time."

"I thought you were the optimistic one. How's your leg?"

"It's fine."

"You overdo that one too? Lie back."

"I thought you wanted me to look at the map."

Bruce grunted something about later, and Clark followed the downward press of Bruce's hand on his shoulder. The stone was cooler than his heated skin and smooth under his back.

"Let's see your range of motion." Bruce crooked Clark's bad leg, bending it at the knee, and wrapped his hand around his foot to push it up toward his stomach, back and forth. "Pretty smooth."

"One more set, if you'll quit playing with my leg."

"No, you don't," Bruce said, stretching it leg back out. "Turn over." He nudged Clark's hip and shoulder.

"What?"

"Turn over."

"Why?"

"I'm going to show you what you're doing wrong."

"What a refreshing change of pace."

"That a joke?"

"You tell me," Clark said, but he rolled over.

"Being in pain makes you a little testy I think. This one," Bruce said, digging his elbow into the knot on Clark's back hard enough to make him yelp, "is doing all the work for i_this/i _ one." He ran his hand along his shoulder.

"Well thank you, Dr. Batman."

"It's an interesting side of you, Clark," Bruce said blandly, unperturbed, his hands pressing harder against sore muscles. "All this sarcasm."

"Ow, stop that!"

"Be still." Bruce batted Clark's hand away and started in with a rubdown, a palm on each shoulder like a boxer's trainer in the corner ring.

Clark snorted and put his arms up to pillow his cheek. It did feel good. Bruce's hands were strong and cool . Firm, but for the most part, gentle, kneading slowly. Even when he hit a sore spot he seemed to know what he was doing, and Clark felt muscles he didn't even know he'd been holding tight loosen up. "I thought millionaires were usually on the other end of these."

"Billionaires, Clark. Billionaires."

"This what you do in the Batcave between cases?"

"This and manicures."

Bruce put a fist on either side of the knob at the top of Clark's neck and began working his knuckles up and down his spine before going back to the worst of the tension. He dug into the cramped muscle with his elbow again and Clark gasped, but he followed it with more gentle pressure , teasing out the soreness, soothing the tension until it melted away, slowly dissolving. Clark closed his eyes and felt himself melting into the ledge he lay on, relaxing in tiny increments.

When Bruce spoke, it was very soft. "When I broke my back… "

Half-asleep, Clark blinked, tensing under Bruce's hands, struggling to explain that of course he knew this injury couldn't compare to—

Bruce spoke before he could say it. "You're worried about the trek. I am too, and I didn't get attacked by a tiger."

"I don't want to let you down."

"You won't."

"A team is only as good as its weakest member."

"You get that out of a fortune cookie?"

"You said it at the last League Meeting."

"I wasn't talking to i_you/i_."

"That was then."

"Good Christ, so you can't fly. You don't have heat vision. The rest of us seem to do alright without it. Join the regular people, Clark."

"Says the billionaire."

"Touche." Clark could hear the smile in his voice.

"And that's not what I mean."

Bruce was silent for a while, using the sides of his hands to pound up and down. Finally he spoke. "When I broke my back, I thought I'd never be able to wear the cowl again." He slipped his thumbs under Clark's shoulder blades, working up and down the space there. "But I had to try. Sometimes I overdid it, working myself into a wreck, trying to become what I once was." His hands slowed, stilled. "I couldn't become what I once was."

If Clark had been Robin that would've been his cue. But he wasn't, so he waited, eyes closed, listening to Bruce's voice. "That first night I went out alone, truly alone, after the boys stopped watching me to make sure I wasn't going to fall off a building—that first night, I got into trouble. I was outnumbered and surrounded. I took hits I would have normally dodged with no problem, I got disoriented and confused, and badly wounded. " He sighed, working on the back of Clark's neck. "One of them stabbed me. It got through my Kevlar, somehow. There was a flaw in the Batsuit. I've since fixed it." Bruce's hands stilled and his voice dropped even lower. "I doubled over from the pain, and from the shock of it. And then, when I looked up, I was looking down the barrel of a gun."

It was warm, but Clark had to fight a shiver. "What did you do?"

Bruce's hands went back to work. "I did the only thing I could do. I was not going to die in an alley killed point blank by some hoodlum because of self-doubt. If I'm going to die…" He stopped, corrected himself. "iWhen/i I die, I want it to be because of some error, or even chance. Something that makes sense. Not because of doubt. And not because I haven't done everything I could do to stop it."

"So you did."

"I did the only thing I know how to do. Just like you do, Superman."

Clark didn't know the last time he'd heard Bruce talk for so long, or give so much away. Not even as Bruce Wayne. He turned his head toward him, watching the man straighten, taking a deep breath, his own body as stiff as Clark's felt. "I think I'm going to use the weights now. Maybe take a sauna." There was the slightest hint of a smile around his eyes, but what it was private and small. He moved to the bundle of sticks he'd brought with him into the cave and swept them into the pool. "After I take those back out." 

"What's our scout project tonight?" 

"It's your turn to work on Koslov's journal. Me? I'm stringing snowshoes. The clock is ticking."


	13. Chapter 13

They traveled the first days during early morning to mid or early afternoon, making camp in the daylight to have time to build a shelter and a fire and dry their clothes before dark. A hot meal, their largest of the day and then exhausted sleep set in, huddled in a snow trench, sometimes taking turns if it seemed that predators might be near. More often, though, both falling into exhausted sleep with one hand around a knife, either the real one or the shiv Bruce had made from scrap metal from the shuttle. More than once Clark saw Bruce's hand flinch as he woke, preparing for attack before realizing the reason he wake was the man stirring beside him, not an attack.

After four days they were able to switch to glacier travel, best done at night, when surfaces were more constant, and runoff streams less likely. Then the sleep was during daylight, and the relative warmth and sunshine made for strange dreams and groggy disorientation after waking. Still they pressed toward their goal, following as best they could both Bruce's almost disconcertingly preternatural sense of terrain and a crude map ripped from a dead man's journal.

It was on one of those cobalt and white nights, crossing glassy ice that they heard it, the softest trickle of that which they had most been hoping to find. Bruce crouched down with his hands on his knees, and closed his eyes for a moment when they did finally see the river that must lead the way out. More ice than water, there was water nonetheless, and as they followed it downstream, the ratio changed, ice giving way to water's insistent force.

They were following another man's path, and Koslov's journal had marked the way. It had led them true, and when they began walking beside the river, icy but blessedly not frozen solid, they began to see signs left by the man who had placed them there forty years before.

A scrap of rag, a pile of stones, natural landmarks drawn by hand in the books pages showed up, one by precious one, and with each find, Clark watched Bruce relax in the tiniest of increments. For the first time in at least a week he saw the man smile when he found the cairn with the wolf's skull and seven rocks beside the crook of the river, a sign left by a man for another, long dead, yet used by strangers so many years since it had been planned.

The river widened and thawed, rushing faster, and beside it too the ground showing through the snow more and more often, coniferous trees becoming thicker and more prevalent and one morning after waking Clark was bending to get a drink and splash his face when he saw the first fish. He yelled to Bruce, who was lashing up the last of their supplies so that they could move forward for the day, and Bruce looked up at him, not hearing or maybe not believing. They had lived on small animals, rodents and the occasional other small furred unnamed creatures that were like some kind of rabbit or nutria, for so long by now and because there was no other food, that Clark could gut and skin one as quickly and efficiently as Bruce, nearly. He knew which organs must be consumed first, even those from the skull, and how to remove the layer of fat that lay over the kidney to reserve it for later. The fish, combined with the idea that plants might be available soon, tubers or some kind of other edible vegetation, filled him with a sense of hope that rushed through him with a strength greater than the force of the river, churning so loudly that Bruce hadn't heard him.

But then he knew Bruce had seen it too, the flash of a leaping fish, silver scales glittering in the weak sun, and Bruce laughed, honest to God laughed. They moved only a little further downstream and that afternoon they set up camp a hours earlier than they normally would, so that they could fish, using sticks and twine and small fasteners that had once held the shuttle together for their hooks, and pole in hand, on the bank of a river, they sat on ground that was cold but not snow-covered and they fished, side by side. Were it not for what they wore and the way they looked, haggard and gaunt, they could have been any two men, out fishing for a lazy afternoon.

Clark leaned against a tree and closed his eyes and did not think about anything but this for a long time, until Bruce, lying flat on his back with his elbows propped, interrupted the silence finally. "They're going upstream." he said, "it's spring,"

"Probably," was all Clark said, voice as soft as Pa had taught him. "That's what it usually means."

"It also means our calculations were right."

Clark smiled, still not opening his eyes. "I never doubted your calculations."

*****

That night, after feasting on fish cooked over the flames, Clark again against a tree, rough bark at his back. He felt like an Indian or cowboy, feet stretched out to warm against the circled rocks.

Bruce poked the fire with a stick, making a small blue flame rise up from the embers before banking, ruby red coals so full of hearth and comfort that Clark, full and warm, sighed out loud, stretching closer to the warmth like a cat in the sun. The movement of his foot shifted one of the stones and he tilted his head, catching a glint of something metallic. "Bruce," he said slowly, "give me that stick you're using."

From where he sat on his wolf pelt, Bruce handed it over. "What is it?"

Clark surveyed the swept circle of dirt, the stones circling their campfire. "This … we built it right on the spot where we found the cairn, didn't we?"

"The rocks were already there. A starter set, anyway."

"So yes." Clark poked the dirt, and more metal showed. A squared, serrated rim. He dug deeper and the stick snapped in two. "It's a can," he said. "Or maybe just a lid."

Bruce grabbed a pointed rock from the other side and skimmed it at him. Now they were both crouching over the dirt, and it was indeed a can. Or a tin, more correctly. One that had been opened, then the lid carefully replaced. He dug it out of the hole and held it, a Russian label indicating some small preserved fish crumbling at the edges, and carefully peeled back the lid which had been curled, then flattened to original again before placing it on top.

"Open it," Bruce said, quite unnecessarily, and Clark had to grin at him because his hands were shaking with the excitement of seeing what he'd found.

Under the lid was a rectangle of yellowed paper, and on it, the stilted, right-leaning cursive they knew so well.

"Koslov…" Bruce said at his elbow, reading over his shoulder.

"It's like we know him."

"He's… he left it for Baranova. Mashchenko if he made it and they followed him to the ship."

"He's hurt," Bruce said.

"Was hurt. That's past tense. Broke his arm and holed up here for a while. Now he's moving on."

"But he's lightening his load," Bruce scanned quickly. "He got food here… set up traps and weirs while he was laid up, lived on the game, and dried the fish."

"He's leaving some of his supplies behind," Clark said. "Too weak to carry it all. Burying it… a little further up the bank. The dirt's too hard here, so—"

"Damn." Bruce bit out the word and Clark stopped translating for a moment.

"What?"

"I've been a fool." Bruce's jaw was set and grim, and Clark had to snap "What?" again to make him explain. "There must have been missives all along," he said. "Under the cairns."

"Well, maybe so," Clark considered this. "And?"

"So who knows what information we haven't recovered? Passing by these obvious signposts? Ignoring the most important aspect?"

"More than likely they just told us what we already know," Clark said. "Obviously he kept going. And I don't think he knows any more than we do about what's coming up."

"He obviously knows more about his rendezvous." Bruce's voice was a bitter growl and in the dark and starred night, Clark could almost see the cowl's silhouette. "I cannot believe I let us just hike past them without investigating—" He was staring back into the darkness, turning to look at the way they'd come.

"Well I'm not going back." Clark focused on the note again. "And I didn't think of it either."

"You're not the detective."

If Clark had been Dick he would've rolled his eyes but he didn't and he also did not point out that he'd actually been the one who detected the note itself. "He says," Clark said a bit sharply, waiting until he had Bruce's full attention, "that he left a cache of supplies a few yards upstream and up the bank. Under a deadfall, marked with a piece of orange ribbon."

Bruce sighed dramatically. "Well, we can't go tonight."

"No." Clark smiled and lay back on the pelt he'd taken to sleeping on. It was the pelt of the tiger that'd attacked him. At first he hadn't wanted it, but then it got cold enough that every pelt was desirable, and by now he'd decided that his survival was the ultimate victory. He pulled another one over his legs, this time a wolf he'd killed himself, and let his body curve around the warmth of the fire, listening to Bruce move to his own spot, find his own pelt. The fire was warm and sweet on his face in the darkness and he slept well, dreaming of treasures buried under deadfalls in the wilderness.


	14. Chapter 14

Logbook, Day 131: Our journey continues with approximately 400 miles remaining. Probable window of opportunity : 7-10 days. Anecdotal evidence from marooned Soviets indicates combination of geographic location and favorable seasonal atmospheric conditions regarding area in question allowed radio transmission and reception via Soviet Space Command. (Refer to Day 88 for calculations re: current magnetic field/solar cycle predictions.) Still continuing a daily check of our own instruments, however radio silence continues. 

"So that has to be it." Clark indicated deadfall number four, a dozen yards southeast. "Another ribbon, anyway."

"Even if the color did all leach out, why so many? It's not making sense."

"Especially when there's nothing to find."

"Last one," Bruce said, handing Clark the note and heading for the pile of brush. "If there's nothing here either, we have to move on. We lost yesterday already."

Yesterday hadn't been wasted, but it's not as though it mattered at this point, and Clark nodded distractedly, staring at the words on the page in his hand. Did Koslov lose it? Was this the point the Soviet, alone on an alien planet, injured badly enough to break a bone, had gone insane? Left a note saying one thing, then left four similar symbols, each marking nothing? He squinted from where he stood, eyeing the pile of brush and wood beneath a misshapen pine, branches splayed at crazy angles, logs piled on logs, the whole thing topped with a small drab bow torn from some part of the guy's uniform. But the note said orange. An orange ribbon. He watched Bruce squat down at the deadfall, then went back to studying the words on the page in his hand, thinking. The guy left behind some supplies, because he had enough food. The heavy things, canned goods, probably. They wouldn't even have had to be that heavy if he left them behind because of his broken arm. And Koslov'd had enough food, because he'd been laid up with the arm. He'd stayed here, in this area, stocking up on game and fish. There were plenty of fish here, they'd proved that yesterday, and maybe lots of game too. Caught on poles and in weirs and traps and… suddenly it made some kind of sense to him. Some reason a man might mark a pile of logs, and not because he'd hidden some cans under it. "Bruce!" he yelled across the ten or twelve yards that separated them. "Wait!"

Bruce, still crouching and digging, was just turning his head to respond, but he didn't move away from where he squatted, and Clark watched in horror as everything seemed to move in slow motion: the visible movement in the brush beside Bruce, a jolt of something within the pile of rubbish, the horrible sound of a metal spring catching somewhere deep under the branches, and finally the spike of rusty iron slicing through greenery, sending leaves and pine needles flying as it arced up, the thing causing Bruce to finally stop looking at Clark and look down just in time to see the spike coming right at him. Eyes flying open, he twisted his body but it wasn't enough, and the metal barb slammed into the meat of Bruce's right thigh, his whole body bucking with the impact as the weapon embedded itself with a sickening squelching noise, accompanied by Bruce's pained scream.

Clark ran to him, tripping over his own feet to get there. The spike must've been something Koslov had scavenged from the wrecked aircraft, and though it was rusted by the weather, it was still sharp enough, it's spring mechanism still strong enough, that whatever Bruce had done to activate the thing had made it work just as well on him as it would've on the big game Koslov had set it for. He was impaled on the thing, now not making a sound at all, though his mouth was open, gasping. His face was white, all the blood draining out of it and down his thigh, soaking the flight suit around the place where the horrible spike pierced his leg, black and rust surrounded by Bruce's blood, too much and a bright, frightening red. He was shaking, in shock as Clark neared him, falling to his own knees at Bruce's side.

"Bruce," Clark said, barely a whisper. He took it all in as quickly as he could, Bruce speared on something like the spike of a crude pitchfork, helpless to move in any direction lest he put more pressure on his leg and the metal impaling it. Clark sidled up behind him, on his knees. "It's okay," he lied. "It's okay. Lean back, I've got you, Bruce."

Bruce didn't, though, or maybe he couldn't. His mouth worked and Clark thought – hoped he might pass out but he didn't, so Clark had to pull him, Bruce's back to Clark's chest, to take pressure off of the wound while he tried to figure out what to do next. Even that movement made Bruce cry out and shake more and without even thinking Clark's hand shot out to the base of the trap, the thing like some kind of long-abandoned pitchfork from a horror movie barn. Only one of the tines had pierced Bruce's leg, it and three others extended from a perpendicular bar that had been spring-loaded. Or did extend, until Clark snapped the whole head of the thing right off, sending up a cloud of rust-flakes that he barely noticed as he guided Bruce to sink back against him so that he could take more of his weight.

Now only the base of the pitchfork was attached, the main bar and four tines, including the one in Bruce's leg, buried at least halfway in. And although its tip wasn't visible, buried deep, the ends of the other three were, and they were barbed. He grimaced, shifting Bruce against him to hold him still. "I'm going to try to break off the others, Bruce," he said, "don't worry, I'm not pulling it out yet, just getting the rest of it off you," and Bruce made some sound but Clark didn't even know what it meant. He held Bruce's body against himself, bracing with his forearm across Bruce's chest while still using both hands on the weapon. Please, he thought to himself. Please, just this. And miraculously, he did it again, and it snapped in two, so that now the only thing attached to Bruce was the one spear cutting through his thigh. Just that, he thought to himself before realizing how bad it was all over again, pressed behind his nearly unconscious partner with his forearm against the man's thudding heart.

"Bruce," he said. "Can you hear me?"He shuffled backwards and let Bruce lie down on the grass. The bleeding out had slowed, but Bruce's face was ash-white. "You with me?" Clark glanced at their packs, behind him, between them and the river. "I'm going to get some—I'll be right back, Bruce." He fumbled, moving away long enough to grab their supplies and get some water. Some of it made it into Bruce's mouth, or at least near it. "Bruce, talk to me," he said, pulling out first aid supplies. Bruce's eyes had glazed over, staring at nothing, and he snapped his fingers in front of the man's face. "Talk!" There was no response, and Clark watched Bruce's eyes, a cloud, the only one in the wide blue sky, reflected in the blue there, all the while fighting the urge to panic. "I'm going to shoot you up with some morphine."

This, finally, got a response. Bruce blinked, Clark saw it as he dug in the pack.

"No." Bruce's jaw was tight and his voice was nothing but a hoarse whisper. "We only have one left."

"You shouldn't have used so many on me, then." He popped the top and aimed the needle.

Bruce's eyes closed as the syringe plunged into him and then he was quiet and still while Clark cut away the leg of his flight suit. For a long stretch the only time he made any sound, just a moan, was when Clark pulled the cloth away from the actual point of entry. So Clark was surprised, as he lifted Bruce's leg to get the last of the fabric away, when Bruce spoke, soft and shaky, head lifting off the grass. "What are you doing?"

"Getting this out of the way."

"How bad is it?"

"The bleeding's let up some."

"Can you get it out?"

"Yeah…"

"The bleeding'll start up again when you do. Better be ready."

"Yeah, I will. The thing is…"

"Go ahead."

"It's bad news, Bruce." Clark took a breath. "It's barbed."

Bruce let his head fall back, and his eyes closed. "You're going to have to push it through."

"The alternative…" Clark knelt beside him on the grass, unwinding guaze.

"Is not practical."

"I could cut it out, but I think you'd lose a lot more blood."

"Push it through."

Clark barely heard him, talking more to himself than anything else. "It'd tear you up worse than if we can… If I can—just push it through, though. It…"

"How are you going to cut the barb off after it's… after."

"I don't know." Clark dipped a piece of gauze in water and wiped Bruce's face with it. "I broke you off the rest of the thing, though. Has the morphine taken effect yet?"

"I—" Bruce tested, tried to move his leg, and gasped.

"Bruce, don't."

"I think it's working. Better go ahead."

Clark positioned himself at Bruce's thigh, propping it up a bit with his own knee to give him room to work, and tried not to think past just getting this over with. He put his hands on the end of the spike. "Do you want… in the Westerns, they give you a belt or something to bite."

Bruce snorted, although there was absolutely no humor in it. "You're not cutting off my leg. Yet."

"There's that optimism," Clark said, hoping that the fear he felt didn't show on his face. "Ready?"

Bruce nodded, jaw set, and both hands on the spike, Clark took one last look at his face before he pushed. Bruce's entire body seized, and his face went dead white. The flesh under Clark's hands made a tearing sound and the spike descended maybe an inch and a half, but then his hands, sweaty with fear, slid down the length of metal to slam into Bruce's leg.

Bruce cried out and Clark froze in horror. "Oh God Bruce, I'm so sorry."

"Finish it," he gritted out between clenched teeth.

"I don't think I—"

"Just finish it," Bruce whispered, tears streaming out from under tightly shut eyes. "Just finish it, Clark."

Clark swiped at the wetness on his face. "I'm turning you over. It'll hurt but I think it'll make this…" He didn't finish what he had to say, focusing on turning Bruce first on his uninjured side, despite Bruce's initial protest. The final quarter turn had Bruce on his stomach, and then Clark turned his leg, wedging his thigh so that the metal tine was pointing down. He grabbed a flat rock and shoved it under the end of the pole and then poised himself above Bruce's leg. There was no way he was going to articulate what he was about to do: it was too awful. He didn't ask Bruce, just knelt beside him, although Bruce knew what was about to happen because he raised up long enough to look over his shoulder before putting his head down again, lying his face on his forearm in the grass, and that movement alone made something inside Clark break. "It's going to be okay," he said uselessly, and guided Bruce's free hand to his own knee, because that's all he had to offer. "Hold onto me, Bruce," he said, and it was a sad substitute for any kind of comfort, but Bruce did grip him hard, harder still as the seconds ticked by.

Clark took a breath, then bore down, throwing all of his weight into it, pressing Bruce's leg down to press the spike through. The noise was more horrible than last time but Bruce's own body weight and Clark's shove downward combined to move the spike further than before and Clark watched in horror as he waited, praying, and finally ifinally/i the tip of the tine pushed through Bruce's skin, popping through with a nauseating wet sound to reveal the bloody barbed point of its tip.

"Bruce," he said, clasping the hand that up until a breath ago had been digging bruises into his skin. But Bruce, thankfully, had passed out, and for a brief moment Clark curled his body over his friend's, pressing his forehead to Bruce's shoulder, before sitting up, wiping his eyes, and finishing the job he'd begun.


	15. Chapter 15

Bruce came to surrounded and canopied by low boughs. Dappled warm sunlight filtered through leaves and branches, warm and golden and soft in cruel contrast to the pain his leg, screaming at him so loudly that it was a wonder he'd gone under at all. Outside, not far away, he heard the sound of chopping wood. He struggled to sit up and see what the hell Clark was doing, and through a break in the limbs the man was partially visible, swinging a crude axe. Bruce whistled, too tired to yell, and Clark stopped and came that way, wiping sweat from his chest and shoulders and face with the shirt he'd stripped off. Ducking down, he joined Bruce beneath the shelter of the lean-to he'd rigged, small and crude and not tall enough for standing.

"Finally. You're up." Clark fell heavily to his heels beside him. "How are you?"

"Like I got sledge hammered." Bruce, propped on his elbows, tried to sit up and his eyes watered at the movement, even as Clark's hands came up to help him, boosting his shoulders. "What are you doing out there?" Bruce jerked his head upwards, at the branches surrounding them. "And why this?"

"I've got a plan," Clark said, working on Bruce's leg, unwrapping bandages.

Bruce winced as his leg was moved, eyeballing the livid purple gash and the stitches closing the wound.

"Matching one on the back, too."

"Tell me about your plan."

"I'll show you after I finish." Carefully, Clark began rewrapping with fresh bandages. "Be still. I've seen enough of your blood for a few days."

Bruce huffed out a non-response. "Come on," he said when Clark tucked the end under. "Give me a hand."

Clark gripped his arm and helped him up and out and into the late afternoon sun and together they took a few stumbling steps. It hurt like hell and Bruce gritted his teeth, taking in the half-dozen logs Clark had chopped down or scavenged, each about twelve inches in diameter.

"A raft," Bruce said. He opened his mouth and closed it again. "We don't have time to build a raft."

"Partway there already." Bruce felt the man's shoulders lift and lower in a shrug as he walked beside him, arm slung around his back, holding him up, basically. "Got a little light left now." He steered Bruce toward a small unlit fire pit, recently prepped. "Caught some fish while you were out. You should gut them."

"I should walk."

"Once around the fire pit, then."

"No," Bruce ground out. "Down to the water and back."

Clark sighed, but dragged Bruce's arm back up around his neck and together they made it, a slow shamble to the stream and back, the only sound Bruce's ragged breathing and the trickling of the water until he saw the skid-logs, sloping downward on the bank. "How close are you?"

"One more day."

Bruce nodded, managing only a grunt of an answer before giving up on talking and walking at the same time. By the time they got back to the circle of stones Clark had laid out, he didn't really have much choice except to sit down and he was glad Clark didn't call him on the way he half fell to the grass. He got his breathing back to normal and Clark gave him a knife and let him get to work while he went back to his own task. He was cutting notches and crosspieces and while Bruce wanted to tell him to quit wasting precious energy, he didn't waste his own by yelling across the space separating them, so they each worked alone.

Night crept closer and the temperature dropped with the sun's descent. Fish long prepped, Bruce sat in the growing darkness, trying to will away the deep, steady pain throbbing in his leg.

"Time for a fire," Clark said when he joined him, like he was surprised it wasn't set yet, and that made Bruce pull himself out of his stupor as he watched him light it.

"We don't know if the river goes where we need to go," he said finally. "And we can't spare a day. We've got to make four hundred miles in the next week."

"I know." Clark pulled his filthy shirt back on. "I also don't know that either one of us is up to that, Bruce."

"You're well enough to build us rafts." Bruce squinted at him in the purple dusk. "Are you feeling any differently…?"

"I don't have my powers back, if that's what you mean." Clark dragged a hand down his face. He was grimy and looked tired. "Keep hoping, but… nothing."

Bruce looked down past his hands, lying still and quiet in his lap, to his injured leg, stretched out straight on the ground. "Averages out to over fifty miles a day."

Clark huffed out a noise that wasn't quite a laugh. "I can do basic math, Bruce." He looked down at Bruce's leg too, and then he got up and came back with a fur. "Lift up." He helped Bruce crook his knee, wadding the fur to shove under it. "Doesn't make sense to let it lock up worse. You up on your tetanus shots?"

"I'm Batman."

"Whittle me a cooking stick, Batman," Clark said, handing over a knife. In the dark, his face was lit by the firelight and Bruce caught him staring expectantly, waiting until Bruce did as he said. When Bruce gave him back a stick, sharpened at the end, Clark nodded, once, and even through his pain and in the darkness, Bruce could make out that some emotion like worry fell away slightly as Clark took it from him and pushed it through the fish, then put the whole thing on the fire. "You lost a hell of a lot of blood."

"Your point?"

"I don't have one."Clark folded his legs, and Bruce didn't miss the way he moved, sore and worn-out. "Except that maybe… maybe we can make it easier on ourselves. Give ourselves that much more of a chance to make our target in time. Heck, Bruce. Maybe if the place we're going… maybe if the stars line up right and the geography's right, we can get past this planet's magnetic field. Maybe if the –" he tipped his head at the night sky, filled with stars. "Maybe if the sunspots or whatever it is let up…" he rubbed his face before looking at Bruce, and his eyes were so hopeful that it caught Bruce by surprise. "Maybe then I'll get my powers back." His voice cracked on the last words, and he took a breath before he finished, clearing his throat. "And I can get us out of here."

Bruce didn't say anything at all for a moment, studying the fire. Then he tried. "Clark, it's not your…"

"Fault?" Clark said, and Bruce could hear the rueful smile in his voice. "Responsibility?" His shoulders slumped. "I know that, Bruce. But it's either me or that radio. And I don't think the radio's going to save us." He turned to face Bruce, expectant. "Do _you_ think it will?"

"It's what we've got…"

"No, Bruce. Your gut feeling."

"Slim odds never stopped us before."

Clark snorted, shaking his head.

The fish closest to him was charred on one side because neither one of them had bothered to watch it, and Bruce reached to turn the thing. His body almost seized because the move hurt so badly, but he breathed through it, didn't let it show. "What do you want me to say?"

"Honestly?" Clark poked the fire with the stick in his hand. "That all signs point to me getting my powers back and flying us out of here, pronto." He smiled, teeth white in the darkness. "It's a yellow sun, after all. Why won't it work?"

"I don't know." Bruce closed his eyes and willed the throbbing in his leg to lessen.

"Maybe I've lost it all for good."

"There are worse things than being human." Bruce's leg pounded with every beat of his pulse, and around the edges of the pain he could hear something sharp creeping into his tone. "Stop feeling sorry for yourself," he said, and immediately regretted it.

"You really think I only want powers back for myself?"

"Of course not." Bruce's jaw tightened as he tried to concentrate on the fourth rock from Clark's foot, just to focus on something other than his leg. "We'll find a way out of here, Clark," he said and then he didn't say anything else for a long time. They sat quietly by the crackling fire and stars came out while they cooked and ate. Clark brought him another fur and he took it, grateful but stubborn. "I can still walk. We don't know if the river even goes all the way to the crash site. "

"Yeah," Clark answered, but his voice was quiet. Bruce could tell he wasn't completely on board, but he was too tired to argue. He'd show him, tomorrow. There wasn't any other option. They didn't have a choice. Fifty miles, tomorrow and the next day and the next, for eight days and he could rest when they got home. Or if and when they missed their window and finished out the rest of their useless lives on this miserable planet.

Logbook, Day 133: I was wrong. Yesterday was unmitigated disaster and we have returned to the site of my injury so that S can complete the raft. Plan remains the same: reach the crash site and contact the JLA. Radio is in verified working order, but preliminary experiment this morning proved magnetic field still too strong in this location. Will try each day hence.

Clark looked up from where he knelt, lashing logs together to watch Bruce hobble toward him, dragging a fur, balled up around some kind of load. He looked like hell and Clark knew he was still berating himself for yesterday's failure. "What you got?"

"Found the cache." Bruce dropped the fur, and cans spilled out over the grass. Tins of fish, fruit, some things he didn't recognize, but obviously other foodstuff.

"Nice work." Clark couldn't help but grin. "Almost done," he said from where he was crouched, working. "Got about two hours to dusk. You want to set out now or wait until morning?"

"You're joking, right?"

Twenty minutes later they were off and a couple of hours after that Clark found himself satisfied, looking at the water ahead, then behind them at all the distance they'd made. For the second time in only a few days, he was struck by the specifics of their situation, like something out of a boy's adventure story like the kind Ma had in the attic - two men against the odds, battling nature and finally gliding down a river, as easy as Huck Finn. The effect was only highlighted by looking behind him; Bruce silhouetted against the receding riverbanks, the pile of supplies beside him, lashed to the raft and covered with the pelts they'd skinned in the wilderness.

"It's going to be full on dark soon."

Clark nodded, pushing his pole. "Thought I'd get us right around the bend up there. How many miles do you think we covered today?"

"More than we would've done walking." Bruce scrubbed at his face. "In the morning, when it's light, we should double check for trail markers."

Clark maneuvered the raft around a small rough patch and started sighting a spot to tie up. He'd been lucky today - his first day and the poling had been easy - a certain amount of physical labor, but nothing too tricky. Slowly, however, over the course of the two and a half hours they'd been on the river, the pace had picked up and while he didn't know enough about rafting to know for sure, he thought it meant things might continue to get rougher. He almost asked Bruce but some perverse part of him decided not to admit his ignorance. Of course Bruce would know, and it's not as though he couldn't ask later. Might as well just call it a night and see what tomorrow brought.

He tied up the raft and offered his arm to Bruce, who rolled his eyes, but did accept the hand up, and they found a place to unroll their bedding and make a small fire. It went on like that for two more days, following the river, making good headway, checking on trail markers. Every day the river got a little faster, which was good, and a little rougher, which was challenging, but still manageable. A few low-lying trees Bruce called sweepers, a few boulders, but nothing particularly noteworthy. Between the two of them, Clark muscling them forward at the bow and Bruce steering by rudder at the stern, they did fine. Until the fourth day.

It started out like usual, or maybe even gentler. The stream had been slow and lazy, curving like a snake. If it wasn't for the way they both looked like gaunt crash survivors, it could have been a vacation: the river, land and sky picture-perfect. Beautiful, even. Clark prodded the bottom and pulled the raft with the pole; sending them forward, letting the river carry them, take them home. He was just thinking about how he wished they'd catch a current when up ahead he heard rushing water, louder than the river had been so far. Bruce heard it too. He'd been uncharacteristically quiet all morning but now his head jerked up. "Rough water coming."

Clark felt the raft surge forward with a little pull. He was catching a current, all right. He handed Bruce the second pole, the sound of the water getting louder and louder. "Help me get over to the right." Between the two of them they wrangled it out of the center of the river and close to the bank. "Wait here."

Bruce nodded and Clark tried not to think about what that meant as he waded up out of the water - Bruce just letting him take over like that. Just a few more days… He needed to scout ahead, so he did, pushing the gnawing worry out of his mind. Of course Bruce was hurting. Anybody would be, and it really probably wasn't helping to sit for such long stretches.

He was just promising himself he'd get Bruce to do some extra walking once they camped for the night when he found what he was looking for. The sound of the water was louder and louder, and between the branches of the trees lining the bank, Clark caught his first glimpse of the falls.

The raft wobbled and floated, bumping against stumps in the tall grass by the riverbank, and Bruce, elbow on the fur covering their supplies, head in hand - lost track of time. When he heard Clark tramping back through the brush, he realized he had no idea how long Clark had even been gone, and that worried him. He had to hold it together. So Bruce snapped his head up and looked alive, nodding when Clark described what lay ahead.

"It's not bad." Clark climbed up onto the raft.

"Can we make it?"

"It's either that are bring this thing overland until we get around the next bend." He said something else and Bruce nodded again but it must have been the wrong response because Clark canted his head, squinting at him. "You okay, Bruce?"

"I'm fine."

"You don't look fine." Clark reached out and Bruce flinched away but Clark still touched his forehead, then rubbed the dampness on his fingertips. "You're sweating."

"So are you." Bruce concentrated on not shivering. It was too warm to be shivering. He clenched his fists and held Clark's gaze. "Let's go."

Clark looked up toward the bank, like he was weighing his options, looking from it to Bruce and back again. "Just some rocks," he said. "We can do it. And then I want to take a look at your leg."

Bruce held the rudder like it was a lifeline and concentrated on keeping his focus. It's not like there was a damn thing Clark could do. Not a damn thing. Together they got their raft out into the center of the river and a few minutes later he saw what Clark had seen. "Starboard," he said as they approached the dozen boulders and the whitewater pouring over them and the next words he said had to be yelled. "We can get between the two on the far right."

Clark yelled something back, up on his knees as he used the pole to direct them, and Bruce really thought they were going to make it until he caught sight of the snag. Must've been a sunken stump; he could tell it was there by the disturbance pattern on the water surface, but Clark didn't see it, or maybe he saw it but didn't know what it was. Superman didn't do a lot of whitewater rafting, was the nonsensical thought rolling through his brain as he watched the moment unfold, helpless, like everything was in slow motion but there was no way he could stop the chain of events that were bound to unfold. Clark was at the front of the raft, doing his damnedest to stay afloat, trying to get them past the rocks. The water was rushing so loud that Bruce didn't even think he could possibly be heard over it - he felt weak and useless and then they hit - even if he'd been heard it would've been too late. The raft hit the hidden obstacle, pitching them off course and into the closest rocks. The raft flipped and cracked, splintered apart, and blindly, Bruce reached to save the radio, their hope and salvation. He had it in his arms, holding it up over his head as he fought his way to one of the largest boulders, placing it on the flattest part of the rock. The water was shockingly cold and alarmingly strong with undertow. From the moment he let go of the boulder, the river pulled him down, pulling him deeper and deeper below the surface. But he fought back, pushing himself up to splash through to sunlight, eyes immediately searching for Clark.

The shock of the water brought him out of his lethargy - the slow, stupid weakening he'd been feeling for the last seventy-two hours, and Bruce kicked his way forward, even with his swollen, bad leg, scanning until he spotted a figure floating face down a few yards away. He swam toward Clark, and he'd just made it there, was just turning him over when out of the corner of his eye he saw the radio slide from its perch on the boulder and crash into the river.

But Clark was breathing, staring up at him with wide eyes, gasping at him like a just-caught fish, a red gash open across his forehead. Blood was running down his face and he had to swipe it away but Clark was alive, and conscious, and after just a moment he was helping Bruce more than Bruce was helping him, dragging him toward the bank at least far enough for them to both flop in the grass there, breathing hard and staring up at white cotton clouds in a mockingly perfect clear blue sky.


	16. Chapter 16

Clark lay flat on his back, listening to his own breath and Bruce's beside him, listening to the rush of the water. Then he turned on his side, pushed himself up. "I'm going in," he said.

"What?"

"See what I can salvage."

Bruce said something but Clark ignored him, wading into the icy water. When it was halfway up his thighs, he turned around, saw Bruce watching, propped on his elbows. Bruce yelled at him, cupping his hands around his mouth, then gave up and pointed, and Clark nodded, heading that way. He dogpaddled and treaded water, trying to feel for the river and flow of current, and then he dove when he got to the place in the river he'd been aiming for anyway, even before Bruce tried to micromanage. It took him three tries before he found anything at all of their supplies, but then he hit a small pile of them, jumbled across the silted murk of the river bottom, and he hauled up what he could, dragging it back to the shore in heavy armfuls, letting it thud to the sandy ground with more force than was probably necessary.

Bruce watched him, gaze flinty, then gave up, letting himself lie back on the sand, eyes closed again.

Clark's chest tightened as he stood to go in again, because at least that was something. It was something he could do and maybe it would keep him from going crazy. He lost count of how many dives he made, feeling his way, but finally his hand struck something square and metal and that he yanked out and pulled back to shore, too. The sun felt good, even though he was still shivering with the shock of the water, and he stepped a few steps away to shake himself off the best he could before falling to a seat to take inventory. Bruce was useless, out of it, lying silent with his eyes closed, and Clark fought to control the cresting wave of frustration that was trying to overtake him.

He had managed to pull up seven cans of food and, ridiculously, his cape, which had been caught beneath a few of them, maybe it had been wrapped around them - he didn't know and it didn't matter. Mindless to what he was doing physically, he lined the cans up in a neat row next to the soaked radio and tried to figure out what to do next. After a while he found himself sitting with his legs folded, elbows on his thighs and head in his hands, and then he finally sat up straight, ready. "Bruce," he said, shaking him a little by the shoulder, but only a little, because it didn't actually matter. He didn't need Bruce conscious to do this.

Still, Bruce opened his eyes, staring at him groggily.

"I need to see how bad your leg is."

"Leave my leg alone."

Clark ignored him completely, because that much belligerence only meant real trouble and because he really didn't want to lose his temper right now. He leaned down to unwrap bandages. "You've done a pretty good job hiding it," he said as he worked. "Been what, three or four days at least since I've even seen it. You ihave been changing it, right? You haven't given up…"

Clark didn't look up, because he was getting more and more worried as he exposed more and more skin, red and swollen both above and below the wrap of now wet cloth, but he could hear the exasperation in Bruce's voice when he answered. It was good to hear, normal and reassuring. "Of course I've been changing it."

But then he unwound more of the cloth. "I'm going to —oh, god," he said, catching a glimpse of newly revealed skin. "I'm going to bend your knee up." Clark rubbed at his calf in apology, watching Bruce's face. "To get underneath."

Bruce's eyes shut tightly, his face a grimace as Clark lifted, crooking his leg so that he could unwind bandage. The flesh above and below was red and tight, angry, and Clark was sure that if he touched it, the skin would be hot. He steeled himself for what he might see when the actual wound was revealed, and still he wasn't ready, not really. How could you be ready for that? He must've given something away when he saw it, livid and angry, infected and oozing yellow pus, because Bruce propped himself up on his elbows to look himself, only for a second. Then he let his head fall back to the ground again. "Got worse," was all he said.

Clark suddenly realized that he wanted to hit him, and how unreasonable was that? Anger, though, a kind edged in panic, rose in his chest and his fist clenched uselessly in the sand. "I thought we were in this together," he said, his voice just a whisper, because if he started yelling he doubted he'd be able to stop. So he sat back for a minute, counted to ten.

"We're out of antibiotics, right?" he finally said, louder, because apparently Bruce wasn't going to answer him unless he asked directly and because he couldn't not say it, although he knew the answer. Of course they were. They had to be or they wouldn't be here right now. The thing was he couldn't even figure out what they'd used them on. Maybe it'd happened before he even got here. Bruce better hope he'd used them before he got here.

"Yes," was all Bruce said, and Clark just couldn't help it, he couldn't help it, which just made him madder at himself because it didn't matter but he had to know. The words came out in a rush, running together. "You used them on me, didn't you?"

And Bruce knew him well enough to not answer. He knew him well enough to pretend not to hear him, and even in the midst of all this, suddenly Clark wanted to laugh. "Even though I didn't have an infection, you—"

That got him, that got Bruce. "The reason," he said, opening his eyes and glaring, "the reason you didn't get an infection is because I took preventative measures. Injuries like that can quickly turn toxic—animal bites, puncture wounds, cat bites in particular, and that was the biggest cat possible—all highly dangerous, which you'd know if you ever had to actually deal with anything." ,Bruce propped himself up, the better to yell at him, he guessed, which made it even easier to keep snapping back, because he sure as hell didn't know what to do to fix it.

"You're compromising the mission, Bruce. Because you sacrificed something I didn't need, for me when—"

Bruce's lips were a thin line. "I did the best I could and I'd do it again. You are not, as much as you'd like to believe the opposite, invincible. Not right now anyway. You never have been, there's always been something. Kryptonite or mind control or some damn Lexcorp—"

"That laser ray was only a fluke."

"Yeah." Bruce's mouth quirked up into a rueful smile. "See? You can't even let that one go. Now. While you're actually vulnerable, you're still making excuses for—" he waved a hand at him, doing that thing he did that was almost an eyeroll. "Meanwhile, welcome to the real world. The small, real world the rest of us have to live in."

Clark didn't know what to say for a minute and Bruce just kept going anyway. "You can't have it both ways, Clark. You can't both grieve the loss of your powers and ignore that they're gone simultaneously." He snorted and flopped down on his back, glaring up at the sky.

"You…" Clark started, and then his eyes narrowed. "Oh, no you don't," he said, suddenly flashing on the last fight he had with Lois. "Oh no. You don't get to try to make me feel guilty when you're the one who already sacrificed—his leg, from the looks of it—so I could maybe avoid an infection, and you don't get to hide this for days and then try to change the subject so I won't notice how you didn't even have the courtesy…" He trailed off, speechless for a second while he tried to make a coherent sentence, and then he realized the one he was looking for. "You've compromised the mission, Bruce." Clark folded his arms and waited for that to sink in.

All it did was make Bruce laugh, and that made Clark angrier. "So what are we going to do now? You can't walk and we're going to be lucky if you can keep your leg. Our raft is destroyed and we need to make a lot of distance in the next few days but," he couldn't help it, this needed repeating, "you can't walk! Because you used antibiotics on someone else and now you don't have them for yourself."

"Sorry Clark, I know it's painful for you, but it's true. Some of us aren't super. We just do the best we can."

"Shut up," Clark growled. "Just shut up." Clark picked up the disgusting, encrusted bandages and threw them toward the river. "This isn't about that and you absolutely know it. This is about you not even trusting me enough to be honest with me."

"What? Of course I trust you."

"Your actions say otherwise." Clark put his forearm against the man's clammy forehead and tried to gauge how high the fever was. All he could ascertain, through his fear and his anger, was that it wasn't nearly as hot as the leg itself.

"I'll be back, Bruce," he said, and got up to go to work.

—

Bruce slept. He didn't know how long but it was pitch dark the first time he woke, shaking, and at first he thought what was happening was part of the nightmare he'd been having. He lay there shivering, blinking at a fire, and the flames seemed to laugh and sputter at him but surely that wasn't real and then something cool was being wrapped around his sore leg. It was cold - he was cold, freezing, despite the heat of the fire—but the cool helped numbed the raging scream in his leg and the imps in the flames receded, so maybe the cold was worth it.

Hands were on his face, cupping his cheeks, then his forehead and then he was cursing and fighting because he was being hauled up and half-dragged, half carried away from the firepit. "Sorry, Bruce," a voice, Clark's voice because who else had there even been for months except in dreams, and then they were going downhill, through tall grass. His heels bumped along soft sand and he only realized where this was going a second or two before the shock of cold water hit him, surrounded him, surrounded them both. He gasped in shock at the feel of it, the unwelcome, freezing wet, and flailed and fought.

"Come on, Bruce," Clark was saying, and Bruce couldn't think except to push away but Superman held him fast. "Be still," he said, his voice an angry growl and he held him, shaking, pinned but held like a baby, cradled in the icy water, head up, the rest of him submerged in the dark, wet cold.

Bruce shuddered and shook. So cold. He tried to get away from Superman but there wasn't any strength in him - no strength at all and all he could do, in the end, was blink up at the stars in the dark sky and try to curl into Superman's body heat, because the water was like ice and he was so, so cold. It wasn't any help at all that Clark was drawing up water with his hand and letting it spill over his forehead. Though realizing that did make him realize he had a chance. Since he was only being held with one hand, instincts kicked in and he shoved at the dense wall of muscle - Clark's chest, hands skittering over cold wet cloth and skin as he pushed as hard as he could.

"Knock it off," Clark said, but he kept pushing, finally kicking out with his good leg. It hit, made impact and he slipped out of Clark's hold, but then there was nothing to support him and he flailed, going under and getting a mouth and noseful of river water. "Damn it, Bruce." Clark hauled him up. "Cough it out," he said, slapping his back. "Now be still." Clark leveraged him down to let the back of his skull rest in the cold water. "You're burning up with fever."

—

Unsurprisingly, Bruce was not an easy patient, but Clark was starting to hope he could save his leg, so he put up with him. He opened another can of peaches, one that he'd salvaged when the raft went down. Beside him on one side lay Bruce, still with some fever but less than he'd had last night finally, and on the other side of him was the radio, open and cannibalized, disassembled with its parts drying in the sun.

He woke Bruce enough to get the peaches down him, and they didn't require much chewing, which helped. He fed them with his fingers, following that by tipping the can they'd been in, but the few drops of syrup he hadn't stolen already ran down Bruce's face, so he cleaned it off and made him wake up a little more fully so he didn't drown on what came next.

"Up," he said, pulling Bruce to half-sit. "Drink this."

"What is it?" Bruce said, smacking his lips and having the nerve to give him a look like maybe Clark was trying to poison him. The look of suspicion combined with bedhead and a terrible looking beard made him laugh and that made Bruce scowl more, only making Clark laugh harder.

"Water." Clark made him drink a few swallows.

"What's so funny?"

"Nothing. It's stress, I think." Clark smiled at himself. "I'm glad you're better."

"How do you know I'm better?" Bruce's voice was rasping and hoarse, and his eyes were still skeptical.

"Just a hunch," Clark was saying when Bruce's eyes went wide and he sat up, angrily waving an arm at the radio parts.

"What the hell, Clark?"

"What?"

"The batteries? You've opened up the batteries?"

Clark just stared at him. "Yes, Bruce. Yes I did."

"That radio was going to save us," Bruce said quietly.

"It is saving us. And don't you remember? It got wet anyway."

"Radios can dry out!"

Clark wasn't sure if he'd ever heard Bruce so ridiculous. He almost said so but thought better of it. "Call me crazy, but I thought the battery acid would do more good saving your leg than maybe working again when maybe we get in range."

Bruce frowned, suspicion back in full force. "What are you talking about?"

"You're not the only one with some tricks up his sleeve. I made activated charcoal."

"Activated charcoal," Bruce parroted, obviously not able to figure out what to do with that information, and it was obvious to Clark that he'd officially become petty, because Bruce being confused about Clark's genius pleased him. Until he realized it might still be an effect of the residual fever, and that was enough to snap him back to something a little closer to normal.

"Sugar from the syrup in the peaches, charcoal activated by sulphuric acid," he said, a little sharper than was necessary, because even if Bruce did have a fever, he was a very unpleasant patient. "Made a poultice. Your leg's still infected, but it's not septic."

Bruce, jerk that he could be, just squinted at him. He looked at the fire, which was dead, and then past it, to a large, partially-hollowed log in which a small, controlled fire burned. "Pretty fancy."

"Yeah?" Clark nodded, exhaling and sitting back to see it the same way Bruce must: still a bit fever-addled, not as the man who'd broken his back for the last three days and nights working on it. "That's what's going to get us out of here."

—

Logbook Day 137: S for B. Canoe finished. Leaving at dawn. 3 days left to escape.


	17. Chapter 17

Bruce argued, but even he knew it was just form; he couldn't walk all the way to the crash site. He had an infected leg and a barely-controlled fever, so he finally shut up and let Clark load him into the hollow log. He watched Clark strap on the harness he'd rigged and start swimming before he let himself lie down, head resting on the now-useless husk of their radio. He didn't know why Clark had insisted on bringing it with them, any more than he knew how many hours passed like that, Clark pulling the canoe, Bruce staring up at the sun: dozing, waking and sleeping again. Once he woke and it was night, but still they were moving and then it was daylight again and Clark was pushing liquids at him. "Drink. You're going to get dehydrated. Drink," Clark said, so he did. He must've eaten something too, but he couldn't remember. There was just floating and sun or cloud or darkness and then there was Clark, pulling him from the little boat and dusting him off, hauling him, half-dragging him up the bank, toward a hill, green grass and pines and rocks, toward the base of a mountain. "It's here," Clark said, his voice cracking on the words. "It's here."

Bruce stumbled, doing his best to keep up, Clark's hand digging into his armpit to support him, and he craned his neck to see.

"No, that way." Clark grabbed his chin and turned his head and there it was: The Voskhod 7. Lodged halfway up the mountain, half-covered in rocks and rubble, was a spacecraft. Their spacecraft. Poised precariously and at an angle, sat the rusted-out star of the Soviet Space Program, circa 1972.

***

Bruce was the one who found the bodies. Left behind like an invalid while Clark scouted for the best route up the mountain, propped against a tree, he sat there for a while, rough bark at the back of his head, eyes half-closed. He couldn't see the craft from where he was, so he waited, and after a long while of staring at nothing in particular, he realized what he was seeing, a few yards away. Pulling himself to his feet, he investigated, and he wasn't mistaken. The mounds were too regular, too even. He brushed away years of leaves and pine needles and after digging clumsily with his hand into the mound of dirt, a cosmonaut. He was considering whether it was worth expending his limited energy to dig up the others when Clark's shadow fell across him, blocking out the sun. "Never missed my utility belt so much."

Clark grunted a non-response and crouched beside him. "My money's on Koslov."

"What?" Bruce squinted at him.

"The one who survived to bury these three."

"Probably." Bruce's mind drifted to thoughts he didn't need to be dwelling on, thoughts of loss and uselessness and futility. "Nothing here," he finally said, giving up and rubbing his muddy hands on the tattered remains of his flight suit.

"I found the best route up."

Grabbing Clark's shoulder to hoist himself he said, "Come on, let's go," when Clark didn't move.

Clark scraped a hand over his face and sighed, but finally stood, shuffling a little. "I just think…"

Bruce narrowed his eyes, bracing himself for whatever was coming. He could already tell he wasn't going to like it.

"I think…" Clark squared his shoulders, crossing his arms. "I think you should stay here."

"Stay behind." Bruce snorted. "Superman have to give himself a pep talk to say that to me?"

"It's not an easy climb."

"So?" Bruce started walking. "I didn't come all this way to miss the main attraction."

"This like Disneyland, then?" Clark called.

"Bizzaro Disneyland."

Clark sputtered a noise and finally started to follow. "To your right," he called. "The grade's easier."

It was a grueling climb. Bruce felt like he was walking horizontally half the time and he glowered at Clark, useless radio under his arm and still making decent strides over the dirt and rubble. Clark caught the glare when he turned around to check on him after stepping up onto the next ledge. "Want a hand?"

Bruce shook his head 'no' but Clark helped him anyway, grabbing his arm and hauling him up to stand beside him. "Hey, watch it," Bruce said, looking down at the bicep Clark was gripping. "Little tight there, Charles Atlas."

"What?" Clark wasn't listening, he was looking up ahead. They'd come around to where the spaceship was visible again.

"Go ahead," Bruce said, and maybe this was Disneyland, because Clark was like Dick at the circus now, he was that excited, and Bruce… Bruce's head was starting to really pound-his fever was kicking in again. He pinched his nose and stood there, resting a minute while Clark ran ahead, scurrying over rubble like a mountain goat. A really large one. The big Billy Goat Gruff and Bruce sat down in the dirt and rocks to catch his breath, hoping he wasn't already getting delirious.

He must have passed out for a while because when he opened his eyes, Clark was crouched beside him, scanning some kind of report he'd gotten from the ship. He'd smeared the hell out of the paper, and for the first time in a while Bruce wondered how filthy he must look, if Clark looked that dirty and unkempt. He guessed he must be worse, since Clark had charcoal smudges everywhere but Bruce had been the one rolling around in the charred canoe.

Rubbing his eyes, he read over Clark's shoulder and tried not to let his eyes cross. Attempting to translate Russian to English didn't get him very far so he looked past the book at the spaceship, a huge, sad hulk of metal collapsing in on itself, a screw driven partway into the mountain at a forty-five degree angle, the rear of the craft dangling some thirty feet in the air. To the west, if he looked, he knew he'd see the river they'd used to get here, now a good ways below. Somewhere nearby more water was pouring; he could hear it, flowing down in tributaries to join the waters of the river. Maybe, in other circumstances, this would have been beautiful. "So," he finally said, and Clark looked up from the page. "What have you got?"

"Found it in the wreckage."

"Anything helpful?"

Clark hummed, ignoring the question while he finished the page and skimmed the next few. "Two of the cosmonauts died on impact, one later. Our guy, Koslov, came here to try and use the ship's radio."

"Any sign of him or the radio?"

"No. But I'm going in."

"What's your idea, Clark?"

Clark had buried his nose in the book again. "What?"

"I can tell you're mulling something."

"I think… I'm still thinking it through, but I've got an idea. If we could recharge the battery…" Clark shaded his eyes and looked up at the rusting ship. "We just need a source of power. Think of all the options there have to be on that thing. Stored energy waiting for us to take. At the very least there are mercury-oxide cells, hydraulic acid…"

"Nickel-hydrogen's right for the time period. A little early for general usage, but not the military."

"Proton-exchange membrane fuel cells were fist used in '67. So PEMs…"

"PEMS? No shelf life. They'd all be dead."

"We don't know that."

"What? That's crazy, Clark."

Clark shrugged. "The super hydrazine system's still classified. Wouldn't surprise me if PEMs worked better than anybody at NASA admitted."

Now Bruce really did think he was delirious. "Military-industrial conspiracies? Clark Kent?"

Clark looked at him shrewdly. "WayneTech's a bastion of transparency, is it?"

"When did you get so cynical…?" Bruce turned to squint at the ship, glinting in the sun. If they could find a power source, cannibalize the right parts, rerig a battery… if, if, if. He held back a groan as he got to his feet. "I'm going in with you."

Clark shook his head, pushing the journal into his hands. "You're going to review this book. There's something here. 'Project X'. They were trying to break the speed of light."

"How'd that turn out?"

"Not even sure I care." Clark swiped a hand through sweaty hair. "But I want to know what they used to power it."

***

Logbook, Day 140, 09:17:42 hours: Conditions point to another six hours left in our window of atmospheric and magnetic reprieve, during which time a signal could (theoretically) reach the JLA. Preparing to search craft for auxiliary power source with which we can equip battery in order to send said signal.

***

"So find the details. Detect," Clark said, hoping Bruce would actually listen, and Bruce grumbled, but it seemed like he was going to stay put. In the shade of the wreckage, he opened the book and Clark backed away in order to get a running jump at the ship. He was aiming for the entry platform, two-thirds of the way up the craft. His first run failed, but on the second try he was able to grab the footplate, and clutching it, haul himself inside the jammed half-open door.

He was standing in the main chamber, everything at a topsy-turvy angle. He did a quick search and found nothing helpful but there was a metal spiral staircase a little to the side, and up there another chamber. This room had signs of encampment: debris, a blanket, and there, beside the blanket, was Koslov's radio. He moved too fast to get it, though, and slipped on the crumpled cloth. There was a corpse under it, desiccated and shrunken, visible as both the blanket and Clark slid down the forty-five degree angle that was the floor. He pinwheeled back, grabbing the stairway rail to catch himself but instead of supporting him, it started to give, and Clark watched in horror as the rivets pulled from the wall. He flailed, the radio smashed somewhere below him, and the stairs crumpled like an accordion.

Hanging in midair, Clark's knuckles were white on the rim of the hole for the stairway until he pulled himself up and back into the tilted room. It looked as though there were no other way out, but he found a hidden maintenance panel and jimmied it off the wall. Behind the panel was a crawlspace, which led to a bigger space which slid out into a tiny room, and Clark just took a moment to stare, in awe. It took him a good ten seconds to even make sense of what he was seeing because… It was an escape pod. Over seven feet long, smooth gray metal, and made for a single passenger. Shaped like a capsule-like a giant cold pill for Rau's sake, there was a glass panel where a cosmonaut's head would go, but the rest was sleek silver. He circled it, gauging the location of the power source. Not enough room at the top end so… his heart stopped beating while he checked the foot, which looked, when you really studied it, longer than…yes. There was a propelling mechanism to power it through space for escape. It wouldn't have enough power to get it off the planet, or out of the atmosphere, and that, he supposed, was the only reason it was still here. It was made to be launched by the mother ship, but once launched; it ran on its own power source. A power source he could steal and use for their own radio.

It was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.

****

In 1972, the escape pod had been loaded into the craft through a hatch, a square opening not much bigger then the pod itself, and the hydraulics, of course, no longer worked. But Clark's adrenaline was pumping, and through what had to have been sheer strength of will, he got his fingernails, then his fingers into the crack around the edge of the hatch, and pulled. The sunlight that hit his face made him smile, and after a moment or two of protesting muscles and protesting metal, he had the crack a foot wide, and then further and further open. A hinge gave way and instead of sliding back into the interior of the craft the door folded outward, peeling up and away from the ship, but it didn't matter. He could get leverage from here. He stuck his head out into the fresh air, waving. "Found it, Bruce!"

Bruce was about twenty feet below, grinning up at him. "Project X was time travel!" Bruce yelled, but Clark just waved and kept his shoulder against the door, pushing until he had enough room, skinning the door hatch from its frame.

"Get out of the line of fire!" Clark got behind the pod and slid it forward, shoving it toward the opening. When the thing was three-quarters of the way out he yelled, "Timber!" and the pod was slipping out of the craft and landing with a loud thumping crash on the dirt below. He stuck his head out of the window. Bruce was already examining the capsule and Clark was halfway out the window himself when he heard an ominous metallic creak from just above his head. It was the door he'd opened, the hatch he'd peeled back, loose from the spacecraft. Somehow when he'd pushed the capsule through he'd dislodged it further, and now a large, bent piece of metal was only hanging by a thread. Before he could even quite process it, the metal sheared away and began to fall, plummeting toward the ground. "Bruce!" he yelled, or must have, because Bruce turned to look up, but everything was a blur and all Clark knew was surging down, diving through the air, racing the falling panel to beat it to Bruce. He did, swooping down, and instead of being hit by the falling hunk of metal, Bruce was hit by Clark, landing with his shoulder in Bruce's chest and propelling him roughly but safely out of the line of fire just as the panel hit the earth with a heavy thud, barely missing both them and the silver pod.

Bruce lay there on his back, breath knocked out of him for a moment before he propped himself up on his elbows, eyes wide and startled. "Clark," he said to the man beside him, between pants and wheezes. "I think you may have gotten your powers back."

****

Superman couldn't fly. He couldn't even leap small buildings. But he could clear the width of the escape pod and he was grinning and Bruce was grinning after he did it. "See if running helps," Bruce egged him on, and Clark tried that next, dropping back far enough for a test. He did, and it did, running always helped, and he leapt a long, high arc before collapsing on the ground beside Bruce, still sitting in the dirt, laughing. "So what's next?"

"I don't know."

They both sat there, staring over at the escape pod. "I guess we still need it," Clark finally said.

"Plan A and Plan B."

"Which one's which?"

Bruce splayed his hands, for once out of opinions, but his eyes were lit with hope. "You got me." He sat back on his elbows, looked up at the sun. "It's better the higher we go, right?"

"I think so," Clark said. "I mean, obviously. I couldn't do this a few hours ago."

"If this is our window, we better head up." Bruce jerked his head toward the top of the mountain. "Time's running out."

"I can't handle the pod and you, too."

Bruce stared at him blankly. "And?"

"I'll come back for you."

"Like hell you will." Bruce clambered to his feet. "Let's go."

****

Logbook, Day 140, 13:48:02 hours: S for B. We have reached the top of the mountain in an effort to succeed with either escape plan but both possibilities have failed. The radio, even with power from the capsule, cannot maintain signal strength to reach outside of this planet's atmosphere. And I am unable, still, to fly. Bruce's infection has worsened to the point that sepsis is definitely present, poisoning his blood, and the window of opportunity re: magnetic field is closing in under an hour.

****

Clark stood in the light layer of snow at the apex of the mountain, staring down at terrain they had traversed to get here, at the far-away mountains that had housed them for so long, then past them at the horizon. Behind him, Bruce tried to make the radio cooperate and ahead, he saw the world. He could see for miles and he could see things that he now knew for sure human men could not see. The point of a hawk's beak overhead, the small white tail of a rabbit far below. He heard a fish splash in the mile-away river they'd rafted as easily as he could hear Bruce's accelerated heart rate, rapid with fever. He could do all of things and probably more. Yet he could not do the one thing that could save them. He could not fly.

"Clark, what are you doing?" Bruce said, face flushed with the sickness that was edging up on him, which had been edging up on him for days. That was overtaking him. "I know what you're thinking, and don't."

"Don't what?" Clark stalled, because of course he knew. He was thinking it. "A jump-off might work. It's got me up in the air before." Once, he didn't say. And just barely. Under very different conditions.

"I'm not saying don't try a jump. I mean don't try it alone. You're right, it might work. A running start helps you leap, a falling start might help you fly."

Clark didn't answer.

"Step away from the edge."

Clark turned to him but didn't move from his perch.

"Okay, I give up." Bruce dropped the radio in the snow. "So help me if you jump off this mountain without me I will kill you, Clark." He stumbled toward him.

"I'll come right back for you. It might work."

"And it might not, but whichever way it goes, but if we go down, we go down together."

"If I don't make it, you still could, Bruce." Clark tried to find the words. What he said next was technically true, even if he didn't buy it himself. "You may be able to get radio reception if you keep working on it."

"Clark," Bruce said. "Shut up."

"Are you sure?" Clark swallowed, searching Bruce's face. "I haven't flown in months. I've-"

"Practice run. We come back for the pod if we don't die from the fall."

Despite the sick dread filling his chest, Clark felt a smile tugging at his mouth. "Nice optimism."

"That's you, remember? On three."

They both stepped to the very edge of the precipice and Clark watched the snow his step dislodged crumble and fall away into the abyss. "I've never felt like there was so much at stake in my life," he said, voice barely audible. "I mean, intellectually, that's not true, but…" He stopped talking, because he was rambling now, nervous. "It's you." He wrapped his right arm around Bruce, hooking it around his chest and under his arm and holding tight. For over four months he would have died had he tried this. For the last twenty weeks he'd been hobbled and injured or stumbling; occasionally walking but never, ever flying. If he had tried this at any time in the last four plus months, he'd have sunk like a stone and Bruce too, dashing themselves to death on the rocks below. Yet now he was stepping into nothing and bringing his best friend with him. His best friend who surely couldn't fly, who would always fall like a stone and land broken on the rocks below.

"It'll be fine," Bruce said, and his voice didn't even shake, perfectly convincing. Or would've been, if Clark couldn't hear his heart speed even faster.

"On three, then."

Bruce nodded, he knew what that meant. Clark gripped him tighter. "One…"

They both, in tandem, said "Two," and stepped from the ledge.

****

Falling. Bruce had jumped plenty of times before. Batman jumped every night, and he knew falling and jumps and grapple guns and ziplines, and this was none of that. This was a horrifying, stomach-turning freefall that went on and on as his fever-addled mind watched the ground surge up to meet them. This was it, and it was over and they were hurtling down and down and down until… they weren't. Until everything was flipped and spun and the world rotated on its axle and they were on their way up. Beside him and against him Clark was laughing, joyous and laughing and they were soaring up into the cold, beautiful sky like they had not in so long that it was a lifetime. Swoops and dives and Clark even tried a full flip, because apparently Clark, once able to fly again was like a bird too long-caged, or Dick, once you let him touch a trapeze. His breath was gone, and he was laughing and Clark was laughing, giddy and ecstatic and then they were on solid ground again where Bruce had to lean against the cool metal of the escape pod to recover his breath and sanity until his body stopped shaking.

"We haven't broken the planet's gravity," Clark said.

"Put on your cape." Bruce pulled it from escape pod and passed it to him. "We're just about to."

Clark stood there frozen, staring down at the red fabric in his hands, eyes unfocused.

"I have faith in you, Superman."

Clark nodded, still silent.

"Not that you're perfect. You are a very obnoxious patient. Remember that if you ever have to convalesce again."

"Because you're a bundle of pleasant, warm compliance," Clark said but his mind was still obviously miles away, his eyes distant. "I would've died four or five times over if it wasn't for you."

"Pretty sure the imminent death's been mutual." Bruce gave up on waiting for Clark to do it and fastened the cape around Clark's neck, over the filthy Soviet flight suit. "Your point?"

Clark lips crooked into a smile, finally coming fully back to himself and looking right at him. "Thanks, Bruce. No matter what happens-even if the g-force tears us apart- I'm glad. It's selfish, but I'm glad it's been you."

Bruce smoothed Clark's cape. "Says the man who risked his life to find me."

"That was… that was a spur of the moment thing." Clark inhaled and exhaled and opened up the pod so Bruce could climb in. "Of course I'm glad I did," he said, now really smiling, though mostly to himself, and for the first time in a long time Bruce thought of apple pie and cornfields, of skyscrapers and traffic cops and country roads and baseball. Of friends and family and home. He blamed septicemia.

"Clark, neither one of us would be even this close to getting home if we weren't… who we are." Bruce's gaze found the mountains from which they'd started the journey, far in the distance. Fever was making his head pound and obviously it was getting to him because his next words were even rawer. "Neither one of us would be here if we weren't who we are to each other, either." His heart felt like it would burst so he gave himself a full breath before continuing, swallowing the hitch in his throat. "And now, if you don't mind, I think I want to table this discussion until we get home, because temperature spikes are compromising my emotional filter."

Clark laughed and hugged him, thumping his back and Bruce allowed it for a moment before extricating himself to climb into the silver capsule. Clark checked the latches, pulling the thing to the edge of the mountain. He felt the capsule slide, then heard the thump of Clark's arm wrapping around the circumference, and then together, Clark, and Bruce, in the escape pod, both fell. For the second time in a few minutes, Bruce watched the world go by, first on a descent, then on ascent, hurtling up. Through the little clear panel he watched, as long as he could, the world they'd lived in for the past twenty weeks as it fell away. Its rivers and mountains melted into a patchwork quilt below him and then he looked up, up at the clouds and blue sky and sunshine. As the planet's atmosphere thinned, he shook and the capsule shook. He felt the planet try to keep them, suck them back down and keep them, but Clark powered through and they were breaking the damn hellhole's hold, shooting up into the dark void of space. Through the window then were just stars, and visible just at the edge of the viewing panel, as it had been the whole time, was the hem of Superman's red cape, trapped between two of them as Clark brought them home.


	18. Chapter 18

Logbook, Day 141

Earth. Arrived at JLA Headquarters four hours ago. League, understandably, quite surprised to see us, save for NW who wishes for the record to note that he was never worried. Currently in sick bay recovering with antibiotics for leg injury; transferring to Gotham General as part of contingency plan.

****

Bruce woke to two sounds: one new, one he'd heard almost every night for four months. An electrocardiogram was beeping and Clark Kent was softly snoring, dozing on the chair next to his bed, arms crossed, head back. Dick, in the opposite chair, saw Bruce was awake and grinned, putting down his magazine as he came over. "Right?" he said, stretching. "Must have practice. Being a reporter deep in the rain forest for the last four and a half months? Must've had to sleep through a lot more noises than heart monitors. Parrots and toucans. Jaguars and anaconda! "

"I think the anacondas are pretty quiet, actually," Bruce said. "And I'd poke him awake, but the IV has me tethered."

Clark had one eye open now, and a touch of the smile he was trying not to show. He pushed his glasses up his nose and straightened his jacket. "Just resting my eyes," he said. "Didn't get much sleep last night."

"Well, I imagine Lois _was_ glad to see you-"

"Bruce," Clark said primly, looking pointedly at Dick, who only grinned wider. "We had a lot of work to do," Clark added, and he only made it worse by turning a little pink. "For winding up her _stories_. The ones she wrote under my byline."

"Hmm." Bruce raised an eyebrow. "So that's what they're calling it now."

"Winding up or bylines?" Dick said, laughing.

Tim came through the door with a cup of coffee in each hand. "What'd I miss?"

"Nothing," Bruce said. "Clark was just catching us up on his… civic responsibilities."

Tim's forehead wrinkled like he knew something was up but Bruce watched him choose to let it slide. Probably still thinking about his new invention's scanning range. "You're lucky your wife's a good ghost writer. I've been reading her-I mean your stuff. She's got your style down. It's a decent environmental piece, too. Who wants one of these?" Tim hoisted the cups in his hand, bumping the door with his shoulder to make sure it closed completely. "I just got 'em for cover."

"Give it to sleepyhead, there." Dick jerked his chin at Clark. "Guy needs to stay up."

Bruce nodded. "Maintain his fortitude..."

"Guarantee his vigor…"

"Okay, that's enough!" Clark said. "Thank you, Tim, for the coffee. And the room's clear?"

"Crystal. Used my new echo-oscillator. Can locate bugs through a three-sensor testing mechanism. The hardest part was programming around the variable interface but I figured that out last week."

"It's remarkable," Bruce said because it definitely was, and because Tim had that look like he could go on explaining for another thirty minutes. "And because of it, we can speak freely. But I'd still like the television on, please. Just for a little extra cover."

"Sure, Bruce." Tim flicked it on something inane, then looked from Bruce to Clark. "You look over the files I downloaded yet?"

"I did," Bruce said, smiling. "Pretty impressive. Both of you." He nodded at Dick. "Staging a Metropolis double bill."

"Yeah, well." Tim was obviously pleased. "We kept, you know, thinking, why not? More reason to throw everybody off."

"Can't say they never see you guys on the same rooftop."

"Lois," Clark said, "was extremely impressed."

"I'll say," Tim practically elbowed Dick with his eyes.

"Hey, hey." Dick held up his palms. "I had nothing to do with that. Nothing!"

"Except as the kissee."

"It was for cover." Dick said, now suddenly prim himself.

Tim laughed. "It sealed the deal. Dick's swoop down off the Planet was awesome! In your cape? It really did look like he could fly."

"Lois said it was phenomenal. She said that must've been what motivated her to kiss you."

Dick blushed, because Clark, of all people, was the one who could make him feel bashful. "Aw, thanks." He practically dug his toes in metaphorical dirt. "But you know," he said quickly, earnest. "It was Bruce's contingency plan."

"Not the kiss."

"Well, that's true. We spitballed that one," Dick said, with what Bruce could only blink at as a poor choice of words, but if Dick noticed, he kept going anyway. "And Tim! He was an awesome Batman," he said, and Tim positively glowed.

The phone on the bedside table jangled and Dick picked it up. "Uh huh," he said, covering the receiver with his hand. "Channel Five wants a statement."

"Go take care of it, would you?" Bruce said, indicating both boys. "Stick to version A but hint at version B."

Tim nodded. "Tibet was refreshing though the accident with the yak was unfortunate."

"The Buddhists aren't talking," Dick added, dropping into his public speaking register. "Though there's still the rumor about how you escaped from rehab with the supermodel-"

"Alfred." Tim said, putting down his coffee, "said he heard it was Betty Ford."

"So plebeian." Bruce shook his head. "Try to work in a mention of the Maserati crash but deny everything. Dick, you're in charge of spinning the hush money story."

"Let's good heir - bad heir 'em, Tim. You go first and I'll meet you down there."

Tim grabbed his messenger bag, no doubt loaded with more experimental gadgets. "See you at the party, Clark?"

"Wouldn't miss another Wayne Manor extravaganza. And thank you again, Tim. Thank you." Clark shook Tim's hand, warm but a little formal, because Tim was clearly a little overwhelmed.

Tim only blushed slightly. "You're welcome."

"Dick wouldn't let anyone else impersonate you," Bruce said as the door closed behind Tim. "I don't know whether I'm more proud or hurt that he passed along my mantle instead of yours."

Dick fist-bumped Bruce's shoulder. "Sorry. I just wanted the show to be as perfect as I could."

"Where'd he get that from," Clark said, shaking his head. "This… perfectionism?"

"I have no idea," Bruce said.

"Yeah, me either." Dick shrugged. "Some rigid attention to detail, some obsessive need to control, some compulsive-"

Bruce coughed politely. "Don't they need you for your close-up, Mr. Showman?"

"Sure thing, Bruce." Dick headed for the door.

"Dick," Clark said, following. "We couldn't have done-"

"Hey, like I said before, I knew you'd get back. You had each other, right?"

"And you here. Thank you." Clark reached out his hand and it started as a handshake but turned into a hug, clapping each other hard on the back and holding on.

"Good thing you two finally got your act together, though." Dick cleared his throat, finally pulling away. "Getting tired of working three jobs."

****

When Clark Kent finally got there, Bruce's Welcome Home party was in full swing. The house glowed with soft lights and soft music, and he was almost at the front door when he caught sight of Vicki Vale in the foyer. The last thing he wanted to do was talk shop or give away tomorrow's cover story, so he hung a left and went around the side to step through the open French doors. The place was packed, but near the fireplace was Lois, in a red evening gown, and she came to greet him.

"Clark! You finally made it. Get the story turned in?"

"Tomorrow's cover story's ready." Clark lowered his voice. "Of course, I had to actually go to the rain forest to get the dirt on Acme's broken agreement."

"You get pictures of the clear-cutting?"

"Jimmy took 'em, and we've got enough to ruin their PR for a decade."

"Good boy."

"Clark!" Dick yelled and then there was back-slapping and calling Tim over too. "Come on," Dick pulled him through the throng of guests, Lois and Tim following. "You need to pull your aw-shucks routine and rescue Bruce from the supermodel who won't leave him alone…" he trailed off when they got close enough to see Bruce.

"Oh," Clark said. "I don't know that he _wants_ a rescue." Selina Kyle was tilting her heart-shaped face up to Bruce's as she smoothed his lapel with a touch that somehow managed to be _filthy_, and the look Bruce was firing back at her made it obvious that he thought so too.

Tim snorted with the disgust that teenagers save for old people making out. But Dick just rolled his eyes."Bruce, look who I found!"

Bruce tore his gaze from the woman caressing his collar and smiled, slow and lazy, every inch the smarmy playboy he was supposed to be. "Mr. Kent, isn't it? How nice of you to drop by, but I'm afraid I won't be able to give any press interviews. I never mix business with pleasure." The ice in his almost-empty glass clinked as he swirled it. "Dick, do you think you could get me a refill?"

"Come on, Tim." Dick rolled his eyes for a second time and took the glass, handing it to Tim. "Oh, and Clark?" he said, pulling him aside and draping an arm over his shoulder. "You're still going to write up the whole thing for me, right?"

"Already partway through."

"Yes!" Dick gave a single fist pump before disappearing into the crowd.

"Do you know Selina Kyle, Miss Lane?" Bruce said, when Clark turned back to them. "Selina, this is Lois Lane and Clark Kent."

"Lovely to meet you," the dark-haired woman said, then to Bruce, "but I really must be going."

"Oh, must you?"Bruce made a sad moue, all attention back on his companion.

Beside Clark, Lois grabbed two flutes of champagne from a passing tray and handed him one with a look that dared him to go ahead and enjoy the show. He clinked his drink to hers.

Selina and Bruce ignored them completely. "Late night errands to run," she said, extending a slim hand in goodbye and Lois frowned over the rim of her glass at Clark as Bruce's own hand shot out, clasping the woman's wrist with a hold that was really…

"Is it warm in here?" Lois said under her breath to Clark, who was tugged at his collar to make her laugh.

"Do not," Bruce was saying, his voice low and husky, "get yourself into any kind of trouble out there this evening, Miss Kyle."

"Of course I won't," Selina said. "But my cats are out of kibble. And you should see the one I'm about to adopt. Bastet, I believe her name is."

"Bastet?" Bruce trailed off, tilting his head. "Those cats of yours ought to be... ought to be collared, Selina." His grip pulled her closer and now his thumb was moving in slow circles on the inside of her wrist.

Tim was back, though, sighing loudly. He thrust the drink he'd gone to get at Bruce, who, after a minute, seemed to remember there were other people in the room, releasing Selina and clearing his throat. "Thank you, Tim. I think I'll just walk Miss Kyle out."

Selina Kyle simply smiled, a languid, curving smile, and let him guide her through the crowd by way of his hand on the small of her back.

"Get a room," Tim said, but only when they'd glided far enough to miss the chirp.

Lois laughed, and Clark had to pat her between her shoulder blades because: champagne bubbles.

****

By midnight, the party was in full swing. Clark could hear it, even through the layers of stone and the foundation of Wayne Manor. The guest of honor, however, was down here with him in the Batcave, and they were both poring over NASA blueprints from the end of the last century, designing a new escape pod for the JLA's shuttles. Well, they had been until Bruce decided he needed to suit up, 'just in case' he needed to go out on patrol.

"If we moved the firing mechanism…" Clark said, as Bruce returned, cowl hanging down his back but otherwise Batman, "we'd have more room for a power source. Nice suit, by the way."

Bruce-Batman looked down at himself, pleased. "A change from the last one I destroyed, isn't it? Ah, Alfred brought the coffee."

"Just a second ago."

Bruce poured a cup, added sugar and cream, and handed it to Clark. "You're writing up our time away for Dick?"

"I'm writing it up for the JLA archives anyway. I told Dick I'd give him his own copy-one that's a little more personal."

"He'll read it back to back for eons."

Clark smiled.

"Bludhaven will fall into anarchy because he won't put the thing down."

"The PEM system," Clark continued, laughing. "We need something to-

"-to jumpstart it, I know." Bruce poured his own cup. Black, of course.

"I still think the NASA tests of the early '90s. WayneTech-"

"-has access to the data." Bruce challenged him with a raised eyebrow. "You want to go see it tonight?"

"You'll miss your party…"

"I need to go out for a while anyway."

"There's an Egyptian exhibit at the Gotham Museum, isn't there?" Clark said. "Priceless cat-related antiquities, I heard…"

"I believe so," Bruce said, picking nonexistent lint off of the emblem of the Batsuit. "But that, of course, would be the last stop of the evening. First you and I could check out Gotham. Metropolis, too. Wouldn't hurt for either of us to put in a little time doing some routine-" He looked up and smiled, because while he'd been talking, Clark had changed. "Some routine patrol."

"What are we waiting for, then?" Superman said.

"Nothing at all." Bruce pulled up his cowl, now fully Batman. "Let's get out there and save the world."


End file.
